Funny how all that stays unsaid
is where my quiet dread is bred—
this ache I’ve yet to redefine,
still loath to sever the design.
I cannot press these creases flat—
they fold in ways that echo back,
in pain that loops, again, again—
no matter how I twist or bend.
I won’t set sail in their regatta,
while I anoint my own stigmata—
tending scars I’ve yet to heal,
each time I fear I’m less than real.
For breaking is the only way
to test each step along the way—
to gamble all on fragile choice,
whether I stumble, fade, or voice.
Yet all my fractures seem to glow
only in light I choose to show—
a slivered truth to prevail,
while I still savor what I veil.







That last stanza sums it up perfectly, S. You are beautiful in your brokenness. We all are.
Healing comes in stages and reinforces the cracks.