One day, I decide I’m too broken to exist,
I’m more ‘cracks’ than ‘girl’,
I’m too much of nothing and severely lacking in everything.
I forget that my heart holds escape exits,
I forget that feet run for a reason,
I forget that hands burn if you touch fire.
It kills me that I forget things that could’ve saved me from reckless abandon.

One day, I decide I’m too broken and I need help.
I ask an amateur magician to please piece me back into something more than this porcelain doll,
He says, ‘Sweetheart, I’ll try.’
I sit patiently as he cuts me all over, and brings out all his tricks,
But I end up even more broken than I already was.
I say I’m sorry for bothering him at all,
As if it was my fault,
As if it was my fault clay was meant to be played around with in unsteady hands.

One day, I decide I’m too broken and I decide I need to fix myself.
That day, I steal all types of tools from the hospital ambulance,
And from there, I decided to write over my mistakes instead of erasing them.
I decide that my being is no longer up for argument,
I decide that the best way I know to fix myself is to reject hands that tremble,
Is to fight fire with hellfire,
Is to make what was into what should be and burn the rest of it.

One day, I learn to fix myself.
I learn that trees cannot be put down,
If they just stood tall enough.