Some days I crumple on to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, or a doll that has been thrown into the corner, my limbs askew and my eyes closed. I get so tired from being me that I try to discard of myself, just for the moment. There has to be peace outside of my body, a calm that everyone else has laid claim to, as if it were natural to be undisturbed by their mind. I am the broken one, and if I throw myself down hard enough, maybe I’ll shatter altogether.
My ears are broken, taking in too many sounds and ignoring the important voices. My eyes are broken, unable to discern faces and expressions. My voice is broken, squeaking and randomly changing volume. My heart is broken, shaken too many times by a fear that isn’t there. I wish it were safer to be me. Inevitably, I pick myself up. I know I can’t stay a heap on the floor. I understand what brokenness is, and I reconcile with my emotions
Picking Up Moving On İnferiority Brokenness Peace Acceptance
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