She threw to many sharp stones.
So as her glass house tumbled down,
She would pick one of the shards of choir glass off the ground and use it
as a instrument.
Always playing the same violent violin piece across her dynamical skin.

Her mother always knew she had
a gift for music.
So when she heard the same solemn chorus pitching from the living room ceiling,
She darted to steal the show.

And become her daughters duet...her piano,
To hug her so tightly,
Singing and squeezing
Until her violin chords stopped bleeding.

We come from broken families,
you and I
hating ourselves for years.
People did terrible things,
to us
at times willingly, most of the times..
not.

Where their lives end,
the places they ruined,
we try to rebuild,
find shelter in broken shells
in each others bruised and battered
hands

And I know it's hard,
it takes a thousand broken things,
to get to a part,
of life,
that gives you strength
again.

You know the good place,
you can see it,
it exists
We have been there
many times
it's not just one place
there are countless
and one is
somewhere between our two bodies
and minds
waiting for us to mend

I wish to be whole,
even with all these fragments missing,
I want to be whole with you
but healthy, simply, easy,
careful
to not be one
who is just as broken
and terrified
and lonely
as the people we once
knew.

What does it take
I ask us
It takes
a softness
found
between
sheets
of
naked
truths
and a toughness
only found
between two
that have endured.