I was told to write my feelings down, so I inked pain on a piece of torn paper, instead of etching it onto my skin. I wrote with ink instead of my blood. So why did the tears fall the same? And why did my heart ache the same? Thoughts crystallised into words, which gradually commenced to congest the once barren ripped page. Dark words devoured by destruction, despair and death. A word continued to resurface forming once, twice and reforming once again as I placed ink to ripped paper. Broken. Broken heart. Broken love. Broken home. Broken girl. Broken glass. Broken soul. Broken. A broken daughter half living a half broken life. Death lurking within her broken mind, unshed tears sparkling in her lifeless eyes. But, maybe, her eyes, pervaded, with the dank look of desolation, could be vanquished by holy angelic light, which could transform the bleakness into sheer infantile euphoria. Maybe, the broken home, surfeited with the aching torment, that haunts her, could be left behind as a negligible memory, drifting in the forgotten past. Maybe, the metaphorical broken glass, that tore apart her bleeding heart, could be thrown away, into the oblivion, obliterated and finished for eternity. Maybe, the broken girl, with time and affection, could be mended and stitched back together. Maybe, the broken heart, with utmost protection and nursing, could be healed once more. And maybe, just maybe, the broken love, with the one of God, pure and true, when penetrated through to her very core, could be reconstructed to be undeniably whole and beautiful.
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