All The Little Broken Things

I don’t want you to fix me.
That piece there–the jagged edge?
The one
That catches sunlight
and spills over all of the places
the sun cannot reach?
I earned that:
years of tears,
the jagged places,
tracks and scars the tears made.

And that piece there–the concave place?
The one
That smoothed out the rough edges,
strange but beautiful and necessary?
I earned that:
healing my own heart over and again,
and it hides more but there is
no less of it than before.

I don’t want you to fix me.
I am.
I am made
of sinews and
of marrow and
Of All
The Little
Broken Things
And I am perfect.

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