On my broken pieces…

I held them close,

so close they could feel the heartbeat I tried to hide.

I wrapped them in every ounce of love I had,

but my arms were jagged,

lined with the sharp edges of all the places life had broken me.

And though my intention was comfort,

my fractured pieces left marks—

not from lack of love,

but from too much of it,

poured out through wounds I had never learned to heal.

Still, they clung to me,

not afraid of the cuts,

but teaching me, silently,

that love—even when imperfect—

is worth holding onto.