#3!
stick around till the end to hear the old me come out a lil lmaoo
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nothing shatters clean.
the break is always
jagged—
a history of pressure,
not an accident.
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you kneel among the pieces
like theyre sacred,
fingertips careful,
not to fix
but to witness.
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there is no erasing.
only gold dust
and lacquer,
a slow devotion
wo what once gave way
under too much weight.
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you dont pretend it never broke.
you say:
look here,
this is where it hurt most—
this is where the light gets in.
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and the bowl,
cracked and gleaming,
holds just as much
as it did before—
maybe more
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not because its whole,
but because it remembers
how it wasnt
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