My experiences—everything I have encountered that etched marks on my soul with rusted words, or the stains that bled into my cells, all the contoured marks on my flesh, left by swords—are mine.

They are who I am.

Someone, at a profound time in my life, offered my brokenness to me.

And I accepted. I kept it. Safe.

And I am grateful.

For, without it, I would not be me.

And I accept myself. I take myself entirely as I am, all that I was, all that I am now and all that I am yet to be.

I don’t want anyone to fix me.

I don’t want you to fix me.

And I do not want to fix myself.

My brokenness is stirred with unforgettable moments, bittersweet memories and a glimpse of perfection that cannot be erased. Nor will I ever try.

I tried once, I tried many times. I stitched and repaired, smoothed balm and bonded—though still, the wounds bled through.

I am a puzzle that cannot be pieced. A flawed jewel with crumbling cracks.

A chaotic inferno that chooses to burn. Refuses to die.

I remind myself always, it is okay. To be me.

My ribs needed to bend, to allow my heart to protrude.

My wrists ached to pulsate wildly, within the deepest extreme.

Words cried out to penetrate my ears and scribe on my bones, to show me a different way. A path that I could tread, or I could walk away from—my choice.

I tentatively stepped close and then I walked away. From the damage and destruction.

And yes. I am broken, because of this—beautifully.

I witnessed and I was ripped open.

I am now fueled with passion, intense pleasure and pain.

So, pull me close to you or surrender me. Take me or leave me as I am.

There is no in between.
~

Relephant read:

55 Rules For Love.

 

Author: Alex Sandra Myles

Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock

Photo: flickr, flickr