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Updated: Feb 28

Broken again. Like glass shattered on the floor, so is my heart. Not an accident but an intentional slamming, meant to incite fear and hate. Frustration boiling over like rice in a pan, spilling an impossible sticky mess. The broken and boiling frustration touching every inch around; I’ll never know the full effects of my brokenness.

The cracks in my glass heart let in the lies. You don’t deserve to eat, they’d be better without you, you should just leave. I want to do those things. I want to run and cry and be angry and hurt and be selfish and worship myself and my comfort. Not talk. Not engage.

But I hear or feel rather a pressing to tell. I haven’t felt safe and he needs to know. He needs to know the lies I hear thru my glass cracks. So I tell. He’s hurt. A perverse satisfaction in hurting him, shocking him. I know it’s awful. I don’t want to but if I don’t share it’ll shatter unrepairable, unable to be put back together.

Change me. Fill the broken cracks and make me whole again.

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