You’re broken, you’re a little broken.
I want to take your jagged pieces in my palm,
and clench my fist around them.
I want to feel you under my skin.
I love broken things, and broken people.
There’s more of you when you break.
There’s nothing interesting about being whole.
Whole things are hollow things.
It all starts with a crack.
Sometimes people crack,
under the pressure of merely existing.
Sometimes the crack ends up being a chasm.
You’re broken. I love that.
It makes you realer than anyone I know.
Humans are not glass.
Stop trying to put yourself back together.
Based on the second law of thermodynamics,
most things head towards disorder.
Humans must break infinitely,
or hell breaks loose.
I’m trying to make you understand.
You’re not glass.
(Although I can see right through you.)
Why is that hard to comprehend?
You think that maybe if you burn yourself enough,
you could melt and be put back together.
You think if I hold you tight enough,
you could remember what it was like to be one.
I’ll hold you. For different reasons.
I’ll pull all your pieces apart,
to examine each and every one of them.
You’re looking for refuge in the wrong arms.
Maybe one day you’ll make peace,
with every single piece.
I know I have done so.
I’m a little broken too, you know.