I hate to admit that I'm still broken
Brokenness was my daily visitor for two years straight. It would come knocking on my door full of gallantry, holding two big bags on each side. I'd open after three soft knocks, mainly out of habit, and I'd be enveloped with a stifling embrace. At first, I'd fight it strenuously, until I'm at the corner of my mind having an argument with myself. I'd end up with letting it finish enclosing me, no matter how it stepped on the space I dread to be crossed. Brokenness, then, would stop, once it realizes the suffocation I'm experiencing. It would flash its radiant smile that although it's bright, I still compare it to the darkness of the night. Finally, I'd notice that it's wearing a blue beret that tears, although translucent, would compare to. It is clothed with a red top that has black lines printed at the center, about the length of a finger. Paired up with skinny jeans that shows the flaws of being thin like there's no more covering to prevent criticisms from trespassing. Shoes are the color of mud just after the rain stops from crying its heart out, it's dirty. Brokenness wore white gloves that look pure as those worn in romantic movies by princesses or even thieves that dare not leave their marks on what they touch—brokenness, however, leaves hideous cracks. It took off its flak jacket, that prevents bullets and defeats, making it win every war, and hung it besides my gleaming lamp. I'd be pulled to a dimly lit corner, seated on a tiny wooden chair, one made for three years old who cries over broken lollipop sticks, and coerce me to open my mouth and speak what horrible the day has been. Despite my attempts to look at the lamp, I eventually get drawn into her eyes, ones that mirrors mine, and see the reflection of brokenness at a pair of black orbs.
But I'm not here to narrate how brokenness visited a year ago. I'm here, lying on my comfortable bed, telling how brokenness learned to shop for dresses. I'm here to tell you because I found that brokenness, made up with crying, self-doubt, self-hate, shattered hearts, jealousy, disappointments, went to fitting rooms and tried a couple of shirts and jeans that I never saw before — perhaps I was oblivious. I'm here because I found a new version of brokenness, not the usual vulnerability outfit, and when it came knocking on my door, I almost did not recognize it.
It was a hot afternoon, I was sitting on a worn out sofa, drenched with self-love that I searched for like it was the purest gold and the rarest gem the world has to offer. Then, I heard the knock, loud and ostentatious, announcing a ghastly arrival. Out of habit I opened the door, and there I saw it. Unlike before, its eyes are vibrant like there is no collapsing by the stairs, no breakdowns at dark hallways. I contemplated to take a step when it opened its arms, I wasn't ready to say out loud its name, I will never be ready. This time, its wearing a luminous coat, silver, where I can see my own reflection. It has three black buttons that despite its size, caught my attention. It looked sturdy, strong enough to encase the body and protect it from the cold and the heat. It's wearing boots to cover from dirt and steady the broken bone its right feet suffers from. Brokenness seemed matured, older than its age, it wasn't hideous, the truth is, I was proud of what it looked like.. but also scared. I was fearful that it had that courage to strip itself from its skin and step outside and began cutting wires, but a turtle needs its home and when strings snap you're faced with the ground. It was when brokenness handed its smooth hand to me that I realized its new face. Its not wearing vulnerability on its neck, not weakness on its ears, nor there is depending on her rings. This time brokenness looked so complete, so stout on its feet, that I questioned why the need to visit me after a year of silence and vacant stares. I got my answer when I took its hand and brokenness marked my welcome mat. I stepped on its cloak and there showed the cracks hidden behind strong facade. I saw the bags it kept inside, heavier than what it usually brought before. That's when I was slapped with the strongest palm and I saw chaos inside a person, saw crumbling without breaking, saw suffering not in the form of cries but in drought when there's no more to give. That's when completeness became a flaw, the fatal blow, that led brokenness astray and now it found its way back to visit me, and I've never felt so lost.
I forgot my constant visitor that asks me about the havoc brewing in the morning. I forgot the feeling of pain lashing on my arms. I don't remember the coldness of tears when it kisses my cheeks. I forgot that strength is not about having high walls but being brave and tireless in mending damages of small shields and. Somehow I have no memory of being a person, that when brokenness came marching back on my door, I forgot that it was my friend too that ushers me to sanity. After all, aren't we all broken inside and we need to open doors to let light pass through from time to time?
But I'm not here to narrate how brokenness visited a year ago. I'm here, lying on my comfortable bed, telling how brokenness learned to shop for dresses. I'm here to tell you because I found that brokenness, made up with crying, self-doubt, self-hate, shattered hearts, jealousy, disappointments, went to fitting rooms and tried a couple of shirts and jeans that I never saw before — perhaps I was oblivious. I'm here because I found a new version of brokenness, not the usual vulnerability outfit, and when it came knocking on my door, I almost did not recognize it.
It was a hot afternoon, I was sitting on a worn out sofa, drenched with self-love that I searched for like it was the purest gold and the rarest gem the world has to offer. Then, I heard the knock, loud and ostentatious, announcing a ghastly arrival. Out of habit I opened the door, and there I saw it. Unlike before, its eyes are vibrant like there is no collapsing by the stairs, no breakdowns at dark hallways. I contemplated to take a step when it opened its arms, I wasn't ready to say out loud its name, I will never be ready. This time, its wearing a luminous coat, silver, where I can see my own reflection. It has three black buttons that despite its size, caught my attention. It looked sturdy, strong enough to encase the body and protect it from the cold and the heat. It's wearing boots to cover from dirt and steady the broken bone its right feet suffers from. Brokenness seemed matured, older than its age, it wasn't hideous, the truth is, I was proud of what it looked like.. but also scared. I was fearful that it had that courage to strip itself from its skin and step outside and began cutting wires, but a turtle needs its home and when strings snap you're faced with the ground. It was when brokenness handed its smooth hand to me that I realized its new face. Its not wearing vulnerability on its neck, not weakness on its ears, nor there is depending on her rings. This time brokenness looked so complete, so stout on its feet, that I questioned why the need to visit me after a year of silence and vacant stares. I got my answer when I took its hand and brokenness marked my welcome mat. I stepped on its cloak and there showed the cracks hidden behind strong facade. I saw the bags it kept inside, heavier than what it usually brought before. That's when I was slapped with the strongest palm and I saw chaos inside a person, saw crumbling without breaking, saw suffering not in the form of cries but in drought when there's no more to give. That's when completeness became a flaw, the fatal blow, that led brokenness astray and now it found its way back to visit me, and I've never felt so lost.
I forgot my constant visitor that asks me about the havoc brewing in the morning. I forgot the feeling of pain lashing on my arms. I don't remember the coldness of tears when it kisses my cheeks. I forgot that strength is not about having high walls but being brave and tireless in mending damages of small shields and. Somehow I have no memory of being a person, that when brokenness came marching back on my door, I forgot that it was my friend too that ushers me to sanity. After all, aren't we all broken inside and we need to open doors to let light pass through from time to time?
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