THE BROKEN
To explore the emotional pressure placed on women to constantly repair, reshape, and perfect themselves.
They wanted me seamless,
gold-patched, smiling,
a vase grateful for repair.
I have grown fond,
of the crack in me,
the sharp little window,
the place the light enters.
I no longer sand myself soft,
for hands that bruise.
Let them call it damage.
I no longer kneel,
before mirrors with glue.
My ruin wears lipstick,
walks home alone,
laughs with blood in its teeth.
Unfinished on purpose,
beautiful in the wrong places,
refusing to be made neat.
