Fixing the Broken

Of Fixing the Broken

I learned early how to listen
to cracks before they split,
how to read the silence in a room
and rush in with glue and grit.

I could spot a fracture at twenty paces,
see the ache behind the grin,
feel the tremor in your laughter
and mistake it for a way in.

So I rolled up my sleeves for you,
for all of you, one by one,
patched the holes, held the pieces,
worked till the light was gone.

I called it love. I called it purpose.
I called it being strong.
But every time I fixed your damage,
something in me went wrong.

I poured myself into the cracks,
became the brace, the seam,
until I couldn’t tell
where you ended
and where I’d been.

The truth is this:
the broken don’t need saviours,
they need to choose to mend.
And I am tired of being the place
where everyone else bends.

Now I step back. I set tools down.
I let the shattered lie.
Not from cruelty, not from cold,
but because I want to survive.

I am not a workshop.
Not a cure.
Not a place for you to hide.
I am a woman learning, finally,
to fix the broken
that is mine.