I wear brokenness around my neck –
It's a green scarf with stripes- tattered but still fashionable.
I hide myself in it to keep from sudden exposure
To the crashing sky that breathes
Heavy, knockyaover winds
I carry brokenness with me
Slung upon one aching shoulder
- a quilted bag, each patch telling
stories of a place once strange to me.
stories I have chosen to forget.
I punch brokenness through the holes in my body
The black and white half moons dangle,
dragging my ears down with their weight
But vain beauty keeps them there all day.
My brokenness attracts other people.
The vivid colors, intricate patterns
Sometimes begs the question-
"Where did you get it?"
I am hesitant to reply. I don't want to brag.
As I stutter the place's name I still sound
Exotic. Lovely. Noble.
I am not those things.
I do not know why I choose to wear these pieces.
Especially when it relates to a place I'd care not
To re-visit. Perhaps because I can only be
At least a shadow of the girl I once was. But each
Accessory has brought the demise of that form of me.
I can't look back. Not even with the reminders.
I wear my brokenness as novelty now-
paraded with pride, people mistaking it with loveliness.
In private, I notice the scheme but
It's the only way it will fit.
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