Broken crayons still color

I watched her in the mirror for many years, always calming the storms that raged under her skin

… rattling her bones.

Broken never looked so damn beautiful.

But as all broken things, there were parts of her malfunctioning like a damaged toy

… like allowing the idea of happiness to stain her blood,

coating her insides with possibilities of rainbows and butterflies.

She was tired of the lies.

She never talked about it, the pain she suffered as a child, and blows she took like a champ as a teenager. She spits at the word “love” when it’s thrown at her so blasé.

Where was love when the first monster she encountered violated her? Was that love? Sure, he was kind, but he was a sick bastard that preyed on the innocent and the damned.

I watch her stare at herself, blinking back regret and chaos behind her eyes, and for a moment, she was still. Her calm frightened me to the core, and yet I could not look away from her enchanting aura.

I searched for love in her eyes, it’ was somewhere deep, under all the dirt and built-up particles that would repeatedly crash into her like a wrecking ball. A reminder.

For many years people assumed she was lost, but in all honesty, she didn’t want to be found.

Not yet.

She had broken pieces to clean up and discard first.