I often wonder
If I was made broken
Or if life broke me.
Are the bonds I find so firmly affixed upon my heart of my own device?
Or is each one simply a memory I can’t shake?
People say you find yourself, in those quiet times alone.
But more often than not I find a vacancy.
A place where I should rightfully be, but I am not.
In lieu are the thousands of reflections of moments. Perfect and imperfect alike.
Scattered between deep fractures.
Cracks split so deeply into the truth of me that I think I must be endless.
Was I born broken?
Or was I born to break?