Reoccurring thoughts playing in my head. Broken records suddenly being pieced together. One by one with the dollar store hot glue. Hoping that at least they can look good. Can I just be honest? May I be myself. That genuine, raw, bare, naked and blunt self. Can I just grow into who I am..
Can I stop fighting myself? Holding it all back. My talents, my darkness, my joy and my make. I’ve lived pleasing them. Over and over again. As they hit the jukebox. Its scratched,broken or cracked. The hot glue isn’t working this time. Its broken, clearly shattered, that record with its beautiful song. That story that they created now gone. Now I am picking up the pieces. Remembering how they pieced her together creating what they thought a masterpiece. Just to leave her in pieces on the floor. She no longer plays the same song anymore. Just sounds of off tones and scratches. Maybe even a crack. As I glue them together I I finally realize. I am back. ©️untappedwriter.org
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