"I want things whole, but I love things broken"
-Ellen Dore Watson
We who have been broken have the unique opportunity to put ourselves back together. The cracks in the porcelain vases of the soul are visible even with the super glue. It allows the light to trickle and seep down into the bones. Only those who have been broken have the unique perspective of seeing life from the bottom up. When a person is broken there is no formula for cleaning up the pieces. How delicately will she splinter? Will I find a piece of her has pierced my heal days or weeks or years later? Do we blame the thing that's broken or the force that caused it to break? Maybe you say it shouldn't have been sitting in a vulnerable position, but who placed it there? Whose rough and wandering hands that blindly flail plunged her towards the floor in the first place? The broken are left alone to do their own clean up. A shattered vase cannot hold water. And it refuses to hold bullshit. We who have been broken have meaning and stories in the maddening undoing that others considered our souls. Whole is not an option for us. Forever we are scarred. We write the story of our shattering along those jagged edges. Cut our teeth on the broken glass. So place me gently in the china cabinet of your mind. Call me broken and fragile. I say conversation piece. I say the story of a broke antique that will forever show her glued together, messy cracks as the story of harsh and clumsy handling. Once broken, never to be whole again.