I am not shattered glass on a floor
to be swept away without a second glance.
I am a mosaic—
pieces broken on purpose,
then blamed for the cracks.
I loved with hands wide open
and was taught how easily trust
can be stolen.
You carved promises into my ribs,
then called it love
when you left me bleeding.
I was cheated on
by mouths that swore loyalty,
manipulated by hands that knew
Exactly where I was weakest.
They rearranged me into something convenient,
something quieter,
something easier to forget.
There are fingerprints on my history
that no apology can erase.
Moments where my body wasn’t mine,
where “no” dissolved into fear,
where survival was mistaken for consent.
I learned how silence can bruise louder
than fists.
And after—
after the breaking,
after the theft,
after the violence—
they walked away
as if I had never existed at all.
Forgotten feels heavier
than hatred.
It is being wounded twice—
once by what they did,
and again by how easily
the world moves on.
But look closer.
Every fracture holds color.
Every scar fits against another,
not perfectly—
but honestly.
I am not ruined.
I am rearranged.
I am made of pain
that refused to disappear.
I am made of survival
pressed into shape.
I am still standing
in pieces,
and somehow—
still whole.
I am a mosaic.
Not a ruin.
Jan 31
Jan 31, 2026 at 10:51 PM UTC
I am not shattered glass on a floor
to be swept away without a second glance.
I am a mosaic—
pieces broken on purpose,
then blamed for the cracks.
I loved with hands wide open
and was taught how easily trust
can be stolen.
You carved promises into my ribs,
then called it love
when you left me bleeding.
I was cheated on
by mouths that swore loyalty,
manipulated by hands that knew
Exactly where I was weakest.
They rearranged me into something convenient,
something quieter,
something easier to forget.
There are fingerprints on my history
that no apology can erase.
Moments where my body wasn’t mine,
where “no” dissolved into fear,
where survival was mistaken for consent.
I learned how silence can bruise louder
than fists.
And after—
after the breaking,
after the theft,
after the violence—
they walked away
as if I had never existed at all.
Forgotten feels heavier
than hatred.
It is being wounded twice—
once by what they did,
and again by how easily
the world moves on.
But look closer.
Every fracture holds color.
Every scar fits against another,
not perfectly—
but honestly.
I am not ruined.
I am rearranged.
I am made of pain
that refused to disappear.
I am made of survival
pressed into shape.
I am still standing
in pieces,
and somehow—
still whole.
I am a mosaic.
Not a ruin.
