there are many things that have not killed me,
and yeah, i guess they made me stronger.
but until those scars became strength,
i cut myself on all those sharp edges
of the shattered thing i had become.

and picking up those pieces was
a slow and painful thing that
painted my fingers,
my palms,
in bright cherry red.

i asked myself if it was worth it,
bleeding fingers stuck in my mouth.
just surviving was so exhausting.
how was i ever going to muster
the strength to put myself back
together with duct tape
and safety pins
and so many disappearing purple
glue sticks?

there was a comfort found in this state,
my body found homeostasis in the
barren battlefield of itself.
i told myself i could build a home
among the smoldering remains,
could learn to love the black smoke
that hung over everything i saw.

i told myself so many things
while on hands and knees in
hopes of finding who i once was
in the dirt and discarded memories.

i told myself i could stay there
if i wanted to,
let all those sharp edges slice
me into ribbons thinner than paper
that could be carried away on the
wind to a place that just didn’t hurt
so **** much.

i told myself that giving up
wouldn’t make me weak,
just so very human.
but a stubborn light inside of me
refused to burn out, like the porch light
left on night after night until
you make it back home.

and i clawed my way out of
that wreckage.
and i’ve got the scars to show
for it, the still sleepless nights
and sometimes even worse nightmares.

but so many of those sharp edges
have been rounded down into
shapes that fit together more
often than not, slotted into place
to make something stronger than
what and
who and
how i used to be.

i just had to survive the healing
process first, because the getting
better is what **** near
killed me.