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More than once, I’ve picked up a lost little bobble and seen the beauty in its imperfections. I’ve wondered if I worked hard enough at my bruised and broken bits, if I could be shiny again, too. I’ve wondered if anyone might ever see me as something precious.
A crack doesn’t mean it’s broken. A crack means it’s done exactly what it’s supposed to do for generations. A crack means hundreds of hands have held it . . .have listened to that little bird sing. A crack means it’s one of a kind. Different from anything else. A crack means it’s special.
It used to bother me, back in the beginning. Existing without living. Going through the motions without the satisfaction. Spending my time watching the very worst of humanity with no redemption whatsoever. But I’ve had time to adjust. I know what to expect now.
Because not even the people who are supposed to love me can find a way to do it. Because I’m so fucking tired of trying, only to come up short. All the time.
“You’re the first thing in a hundred years to make me feel anything at all, Harriet York, and I don’t think that’s an accident.”
