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Broken things are usually discarded.

Sometimes, the thing that is broken is put back together. But it almost always shows proof somewhere that it was broken.

Perhaps a tiny crack that couldn’t be completely patched.

Or a chip where a piece of the item simply disappeared.

One can turn the item a different way on a shelf so that only its perfect side is exposed.

But upon closer inspection, it becomes apparent that it is damaged goods.

Sometimes, it is sent to a thrift store where it will sit on a shelf unwanted for any given period of time.

Other times, the broken piece is beyond repair.

In that case, it is discarded in the trash.

Thrown out.

It is forgotten about eventually. The one who possessed it realizes that they didn’t really need it in the grand scheme of things.

Today, I am broken. My heart hurts so much that words would never do the pain justice. So I refuse to try.

Alcohol can numb the pain for a little while.

Eventually, though, the alcohol wears off and the pain returns, screaming with vengeance. The pain screams of my brokenness. It reminds me that I am no longer needed. I will be replaced by others. I will be forgotten.

Being broken hurts.

Hurts. Like. Hell.




About becmom45

Wife of one, mom of four, mom-in-law to two, grammy to one precious little boy; lover of snow, autumn, pumpkins, cats, books, baking, Charles Wysocki puzzles, Christmas; honest, raw author who hopes what is written here enlightens and educates those fortunate enough to not understand the demons chronicled.
This entry was posted in Change, death, depression, Grandma, Grandson, loneliness, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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