I think some people are born broken. There’s something about the way the pieces of their soul clatter and shift discordantly inside them from the day they arrive on this earth. Yes, I know there are glorious stories about broken people who were able to rise above the blackness to fit the pieces together, who learn how to breathe through the fractures. A beautiful, haphazard and painful creation (I think many of them go on to be artists, writers and storytellers.) But mostly, the pieces just tumble and clash — until they don’t anymore.
If I could, I would take a needle and thread, red with the blood of my heart-memory, and weave your loose pieces back together, stitching you to this earth. Even if it meant I had to unravel myself to bring you back. I would, my beloved, I would. How terribly unfair is it that this universe does not allow us to barter — take me instead of her! — but the heavy gray curtain that separates here from there remains unmoved. The doorway to wherever you are is beyond my reach. And all I am left with is this needle, and this red thread.
So I hold this needle,
and I hold this red thread,
and I lay them down at the feet of all the broken pieces.
Photo Source: Jared Sandoval