To the Broken You

What’s wrong?

What’s—

You ever look into broken glass and stare at your fragmented reflection. You can kind of see yourself as you were in the womb, before you were an embryo even, only a collection of particles that had not yet come together to form something. You can pick out the things you dislike most the easiest: little piggy nose, that scar just above your left eye, that fine moustache hair highlighted by your poorly-applied foundation. Ugly fuck lol. Imagining these faults removed, no longer parts to the picture. That’s a nice thought.

No matter how you fuss about the things you don’t want, though, the things you don’t understand, you will eventually find yourself facing a non-shitty, fully functional mirror and encounter yourself again. Whole. Whatever that means. You see the person you know staring back at you, the you you’ve known yourself to be before you became someone else, someone with splintered veins crawling up the expanse of their skin and eyes that see more of the empty spaces they wish were there than the truth. The person you think has finally come back to being you.

Wrong:

You’re you even when you’re broken.

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