Like broken glass she stood, shattered.
Her presence spread across the room
in smithereens, pieces big and small
sharp, jagged and piercing
ricocheting off the walls, no where to escape.
She stood, sobbing,heaving-yearning for kindness. Anything that resembled humanity. She stood, shoulders shaking, tears streaming and begging without actually holding her hands out. What is it about the pathetic-ness of a person that sometimes makes you hate them even more? Why is pity, sympathy and empathy replaced with a strange and unexpected response of repulsion, anger and agitation?
She used to be pristine. Smooth and shiny, Not a hair out of place, nor an unsightly sore in sight. Glassy eyed at times, she wore composure and dignity like a body contouring slip, custom made. Just for her.
Where did I go wrong? I put her in a box. I put her in a box and sent her on her way. No seat-belt, no cushioning or padding. No Styrofoam peanuts to protect her fragility. No sign that said: CAUTION: THIS SIDE UP. I sent her in the little dingy box with no armour and she shattered.
She returned broken and glued together, roughly. She looked almost pristine. Not smooth, but shiny. All the different cracks, lines and paths that had drawn into her reflected off of her a thousand and one million lights. Each unimaginably brilliant.
And so, I thought, she's returned broken. Broken, but healed. Broken, but better.
Hair out of place, her inner pain now reflected on the outside as the bruises, burns and cuts start to show as the sun sets and the brilliance of the lights dim. She is not wearing her composure or her dignity. She says she had misplaced it somewhere along her journey home. All she wears now are her bruises, burns and cuts. She complements it with pearly, saltine tears that can no longer stream straight down her broken face.
And so she stands before me shattered. Begging for kindness.
Only she has returned home where I too have shattered and feebly attempted to glue myself together. I reflect her as I always did.
Pristine. Smooth. Shiny. Not a hair out of place. Nor a sore in sight. Glassy eyed at times. We wore composure and dignity like a body suit. Shattered. Broke. Shining. Bruised. Burnt. Cut.
We no longer fit into each other like two puzzle pieces. Our jagged edges are a fracas; we disintegrate as we attempt to mash together into one. We crumble until we no longer recognize ourselves or each other. We are lost to each other and so, we are lost.
She stood, sobbing,heaving-yearning for kindness. Anything that resembled humanity. She stood, shoulders shaking, tears streaming and begging without actually holding her hands out. What is it about the pathetic-ness of a person that sometimes makes you hate them even more? Why is pity, sympathy and empathy replaced with a strange and unexpected response of repulsion, anger and agitation?
She used to be pristine. Smooth and shiny, Not a hair out of place, nor an unsightly sore in sight. Glassy eyed at times, she wore composure and dignity like a body contouring slip, custom made. Just for her.
Where did I go wrong? I put her in a box. I put her in a box and sent her on her way. No seat-belt, no cushioning or padding. No Styrofoam peanuts to protect her fragility. No sign that said: CAUTION: THIS SIDE UP. I sent her in the little dingy box with no armour and she shattered.
She returned broken and glued together, roughly. She looked almost pristine. Not smooth, but shiny. All the different cracks, lines and paths that had drawn into her reflected off of her a thousand and one million lights. Each unimaginably brilliant.
And so, I thought, she's returned broken. Broken, but healed. Broken, but better.
Hair out of place, her inner pain now reflected on the outside as the bruises, burns and cuts start to show as the sun sets and the brilliance of the lights dim. She is not wearing her composure or her dignity. She says she had misplaced it somewhere along her journey home. All she wears now are her bruises, burns and cuts. She complements it with pearly, saltine tears that can no longer stream straight down her broken face.
And so she stands before me shattered. Begging for kindness.
Only she has returned home where I too have shattered and feebly attempted to glue myself together. I reflect her as I always did.
Pristine. Smooth. Shiny. Not a hair out of place. Nor a sore in sight. Glassy eyed at times. We wore composure and dignity like a body suit. Shattered. Broke. Shining. Bruised. Burnt. Cut.
We no longer fit into each other like two puzzle pieces. Our jagged edges are a fracas; we disintegrate as we attempt to mash together into one. We crumble until we no longer recognize ourselves or each other. We are lost to each other and so, we are lost.
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