broken

Sometimes time pauses, turns around and looks you straight in the eye- demanding an explanation.

But no, I am sorry, I do not know why you were broken.

Sadder still, I do not know how to piece you together again.

You are a clay pot, made to the Creator's specifications, fashioned by His hands. Painstakingly, meticulously, perfectly you were made; just right. A masterpiece.

But sometimes even masterpieces can be loved too much, if that was your downfall. Or, if you insist that the darkness took you, you were loved too little, struggling on your own two feet; fighting to be brave.

Who knew that time would take you? Who knew that even the best one's fall? We were all too young and inexperienced; naive, if you will. We didn't know anything about rape, or heartache, or breaking, and we hoped we'd never have to learn.

But life is a funny thing, and it grabs us by the neck and doesn't let go, even when we think it's all over.

You fought- didn't you?
Is fighting enough?

Yeah, you're right. Fighting gets you nowhere if you're fighting against time, and life and lessons. Stopping the seconds that tick by or the sand as it trickles down the hourglass is impossible unless you are God.

And God. Where was He, I know you ask, even though it is forbidden that you utter it. A sin, they say. Sacrilegious.

The only sin that was committed was that of the holy man, showing his plumage like a peacock, proud of his accomplishments.
Holy.

I don't know why you were broken, or why anyone is broken.
I don't know how to put you together again; whether superglue or glue guns will work.
I don't know if anyone could have stopped it-
cold hands on warm skin,
the smell of sweat and sperm,
the moonlight pouring in through the windows- like a jail cell, barred,
the coarse carpet underneath your back,
the smell of hair gel,
his gnarled; malformed hands groping; hoping; finding.
I don't know.

I don't know why you were broken.

I am sorry.
I know what it's like.


I am you.