People say the word broken like it's a curse.
They spit it out like rot in their mouths.
They see my cracks and my dents and all the dark, hollow spaces I get lost in and that's all they see.
My fragile mind. My aching bones. The scattered remains that were left behind, discarded as if they were useless.
I know that I am broken.
I know that I live in the absences. The space where time, and mind, and life, do not exist.
I know, I am not what makes a person.
Fleeting consciousness. Noises in my head that drown me out. I am a million people. I am always myself. I am always alone. I am barely even a person. I am too many people. Too loud. Too quiet. Too empty. Too full. I spill out of myself.
They watch me with curious eyes and lips curled in disgust.
'broken'
I do not work like a person is suppose to work.
I am trapped inside a frail body. Trapped inside a splintered mind.
I try to explain that what you see is barely even a fraction of the people I could be.
If I was only brave enough to let the world see all of me.
If I wasn't confined within this skin and this mind and this time.
The word 'broken' sounds so awful when it spills off their tongues and yet the feel of it is so gentle on mine.
I am a shattered mirror with the pieces glued back together. I know that when you look into me, your image distorts, contorts in a way that makes you uncomfortable, but I am a visual cacophony, made up of so many pieces. Rough jagged edges and empty missing spaces.
I used to be afraid of it.
I used to want to see my reflection the way it was originally designed to be seen.
Now I find beauty in the chaos.
Broken was never an ugly word.
It was merely one of many explanations.
A description of my existence.
YOU ARE READING
The diary of Seth Alexander
Non-Fictionas the title suggests, this is legit going to be my diary. and yes, most diaries are supposed to be secret, but I have always been an open book. I like to pretend to be mysterious, but the people around me will all tell you that I am am someone who...
