When I was a kid

My idea of broken was a lamp that had fallen from the height of your nightstand,

Or a crispy cookie that was snapped in two and suddenly wasn’t worth it anymore. 

I never imagined broken could be used to describe the delicate mind of a human, 

Or the rage boiling out of a beaten soul.

Growing up

I watched everyone place a minor inconvenience into the category of being broken.

Oh, you dropped a line? 

Broken.

You didn’t get an A on that test? 

Broken.

You can’t fit into that skirt? 

You must be broken.

Soon,

It went from society screaming that phrase at me every second I walked through the door

To my own mind reminding me of it every day.

You dropped that line on stage?

Broken.

You didn’t get an A on that test?
Broken.

You can’t fit into that skirt?

It’s because you’re broken!

Slowly,

The true part of me watched from afar as I was consumed by the longing to be (whole),

To be perfect––

Oh, they’re known for their burgers? …

Let’s go with the salad,

Looks delicious, but let me just add it up.

Yes, I would like a cookie, but I want to fit into that prom dress

I wanted to believe I was fixing myself,

That I was gluing my broken pieces back together,

But in reality,

I could feel myself falling a p a r t.

The gaps between my shattered edges expanded as the gaps between my waist and pants grew with them,

So much pain for one “You’re beautiful,” as if their words were the bane of my existence

My whole life leading up to the moment they told me they liked what they saw

But it taught me how to act

To plaster on a smile and say

No, thank you, I’m not hungry–

When my stomach was trying to digest the mere image of it!

So many dizzy spells and weak legs trying to stay focused on logarithms,

And so many months spent learning that beautiful is what I make it,

And, perfect does not exist.

One day you’re not hungry.

The next,

You’re broken.

But it’s hard to realize you have a problem when the only acknowledgments are compliments:

A triple zero waist!–how did you do it?!

I would look them in the eyes and tell them I’m sick, but they would just shake their heads

No, they would say:

You’re beautiful.

I wish I could have their eyes.

They see a perfect waist,

I see a pouch.

They see a button nose,

I see a pointy one.

They see beautiful, and happy, and whole.

I see broken.

Because I have an addiction,

Not to popping amphetamines,

Or a nicotine high

But to the piercing cold rush of water hitting the bottom of an empty well,

But, at least I can act, right?