I run my hands
down the cracks
of my own skin
—the once fragile face
I wore is not marred
with scars and burns
from my years
under the stars—
I look into the mirror
to see myself matching
the shards in it
until I realize I'm flawed
and always have beenAfter a long while
of being left and worn down
by selfish people who
can't spare a thought
about me—I realize now—
I'm broken and there's
nothing on earth
that can fix meI try to look for the solution
for that missing piece
in my own puzzle
—I never did find it—
I start to wonder if it
exists at all
There's no fixing
people who are flawed
—we just carry on living—
the blood from our torn soles
and the spirit from our shorn souls
trail from behind usAfter a long while
I run my hands over
my ebbing skin
—feeling the prickles
of memory from
the moments that were—
then I smile at the mirror
matching the scars in my face
because now I realize
I'm flawed and there's
nothing that can fix me
YOU ARE READING
an adjournment of scars, an endearment of stitches
Poetry❝𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘨𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘴 𝘢�...