literature

to those who are broken.

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injuredjaw's avatar
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Published:
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Literature Text

there is a little girl with a sheet over her head, standing
in the corner right over there. she believes she is a ghost,
or perhaps she believes no one can see her. it's quite sad.
poor mother, she's like a doe with a stillborn fawn, nudging
at its limp body with her nose, wishing it would feed, that
it would rise and stumble about and behave like a creature
alive.

my mother has three broken children, three children that
don't work right. we aren't wired properly, we are one in the
same, we're all fucked up. and she's bent herself over the
kitchen counter and hid her face and cried for her three
broken children. for me, for her, for him, one nearly dead,
one dying, one becoming malicious and angry. i've wished
to touch her hunched back twisted with aggravated scoliosis
but my hands are electrified, on fire, harmful. i don't know what
else to be besides broken.

the girl with the sheet over her head will grow to be a woman
with her hair hiding her eyes and she will walk through the
tall grasses and nettles of life wondering why she was left behind.
all our attention is on those with prettier faces and implants,
soulless husks of human beings that we wish to replicate. but
maybe there will be someone genuine in her life who presses
their forehead against hers until all is dark, creating something
like a haven, warm, fingers between hers. maybe there will
be smiles and laughter, even. maybe there will be unspoken
thanks for her heart beating, or her lungs breathing, or her
broken brain functioning in its dilapidated way; maybe there will
be goodness in her brokenness.
constant dialogue in my head.
© 2009 - 2024 injuredjaw
Comments5
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rileysaurus's avatar
i pride myself on not crying. big boys dont cry, right?

i read this, and i got chills.

...

and i cried.