Pick Up Your Shards.

I get it.
You want to take care of me.
I'm tarnished. I'm tainted. You want to preserve me before I spoil further.
You think I'm misunderstood.
You want to accept me.

You look at me.
You know there's something off about me.
You call me interesting, fascinating and different.
You think I like being made to feel like a snowflake. You believe it so you keep doing it.

Don't think I don't know what you've heard.
They told you I'd sleep with anyone.
They told you I've been with everyone.
They told you I'm weird and strange.
Maybe they told you a story or two.

Everything you've heard is probably true.
I don't need a person to sleep with, I just need a reason. I always have reasons.
I can rarely connect any other way so I've probably been with more people than you.
The stories they told you were probably true, too.

You've decided I'm damaged.
You think I'm broken and unstable and you can make me bend to your will.
You can fix me.

You talk to me.
You realize I am nicer than you expected and on the face of it, not at all weird.
I ask you about your life.
About your work.
About your trip to Greece.
I make you laugh.
You think everything you've heard is just misguided rumours.

You meet me again.
And again.
Perhaps you see me at work or during some sort of crisis. Maybe you ask me a question and I tell you a true story that you find horrifying.
Maybe you learn about my life.
Maybe you think it's morbid.

You believe my life is a façade.
Underneath it all is some other person who is hiding and unafraid to face the world.
The person you met the first time.
You believe I am set of broken china inside a perfect little box.
I am too fragile to show myself to the world so I hide under the guise of a strange, hard, unapproachable girl.

You try to rescue me.
You think I'm dark and you wade into my darkness with a lantern in your hand.
You leave fascination behind as you target your enemies.

You worry about me.
You think I am harming myself and holding onto my broken shards as crutches.
You think I am masquerading.
You think I am not really living.

You think everyone was wrong about me.
But not you.
You see through me.
You see a fragile girl just looking for love, support and validation.
You think I wouldn't just do that outrightly.
I need to hide my humanity.
You believe it so fiercely so stop seeing me; all you see is the woman you must save.

You feed me words.
You tell me I am better than the things I don't believe are bad anyway.
You try to turn beautiful memories into trauma just so you can heal me.

You try to expose my insides.
You never realize that I wear my insides all over me.
You think all my life was just one misguided decision after another that doesn't really say anything about me.
You think I'm not being real and nothing will make you believe otherwise.

Your real is imaginary.

My skin is cut, scarred and damaged. My bones have broken. So has my heart.
But I am as far from broken as anything has ever been.
You're not looking for broken, anyway.
You're looking to fix it.