Pain is subjective.
Maybe I'm melodramatic or maybe I'm simply irreparable, with a nagging conscience persistently pointing out my cracks. Things can stay broken forever, especially when the part that's broken is invisible, when the part that's broken is imitable.
Things can stay broken forever because you might have never known it was even broken.
Because when you lift the edge of the rug to kick some more dirt beneath it, what was once well-buried is exposed, and these wounds have yet to heal.
The pang of brokenness isn't so sharp after all. It is a dull hum, nothingness personified, the notes etched across your palms, but time fades memories and skin fades scars and you cannot decipher your own handwriting.
Glue the pieces back together again and again and again and again, until the bottle runs dry and you, you are just a mess of sharp edges and adhesive and you must be strong where you are broken, because if you aren't strong there, then you are strong nowhere.
Be wary when picking yourself back up, because you might just end up with bloody hands, scarlet carvings to remind yourself you are human — you are alive. This pain is part of living.
Ghosts of lips that almost touched whisper in your ear.
"Keep causing me pain," you smile back. "it's great for my poetry."