She was broken beyond repair. A porcelain doll with too many cracks. Dark marks decorated her soul, scars littered her skin. She was too damaged to be loved. Too hurt to heal. Too toxic to be kept. Too flawed to be accepted. Too screwed to be deemed "normal".
Her head always lost in thought, the only comfort her bleeding soul felt was in words. Words poured through the cracks of one's walls, through pain, through experience, through the heart. You wondered why she loved to read? Why she'd rather have her nose buried in a book? It's because in that moment she's not the only one who's broken. Her characters feel real, their pain taking away her own, taking away her loneliness. She was a girl made for the world of stories, of novels, of images painted by dull black words on white pages. This was her peace, for the words listened without judgement, without abandonment. They listened as if she were the only one there to speak and they spoke to her with their own magical ways, healing her shattered self.
*(Original image not owned by me)
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PoetryJust a few short quotes by me. A little piece for others to see... Highest ranking in Poetry #148 (02-07-17)
