Maybe I have some kind of obsession with fixing things; with
finding someone that has convinced themselves that they will never love again,
and then repairing what others broke.
I hold his heart in my hands and gently begin to fill the
cracks, trancing them over with my thumb, like a potter, intently smoothing
over wet clay. I trace over the scars the one before me left, and I know he
will be okay. He will love like the first time again.
In the back of my mind I remember all the days I tried to
make you smile, all the nights I stayed up telling you things I will never
trust anyone with again. I like repairing broken things, I always have. I like
fixing people, making them feeling like it’s going to be okay. But what I am
only staring to realize is, I filled your cracks with parts of myself, the life
I poured into you was my own. With every person I fix, I am left more broken.
For all I gave you, I am less.
All the same, I continue to fix. Maybe someday I will cease
to exist at all, only I will never cease to exist because I exist in every
broken heart I touched, and what could be better than that?
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