There are a few types of people in this world. Those who take broken things and fix them, those who fix things only to have them break again, and then there’s cowardly people like me. Those who intentionally break things just so they, themselves, can fix it; those who need to be reminded that brokenness can be repaired.
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The worst was when you trustingly handed me your broken parts, right after I’d used up all the adhesive putting my own pieces back together.
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How do you except me to fix you when I, myself, am too broken to even remember what it means to be whole?
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It must be easy for you to break apart, especially when I’m behind you, picking up the forgotten pieces you leave trailing on the floor.
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Those who stay strongest for the longest time end up breaking into the most pieces.
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You can only keep something new for so long until blemishes start to show.
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And if I break down, I pray to God that you don’t too; I can’t search for my pieces when I’m looking for the broken parts of you.
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If you stopped looking at me like I was broken, then maybe I   would stop acting like I was.