Kintsugi

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 20, 2018

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Submitted: September 20, 2018

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All that I am is woven into this shape:

The bowl, which is meant to hold something, whose purpose it is to contain matter. 
Everything I am meant to do,
Everything that makes me valuable
Breathed into the earth and clay,
Painted over with beautiful colors,
Holding food or seeds or water.
Rich with purpose,
The shape of what I am.
 
One small slip, and a world falls apart,
Something shatters.
Maybe they meant to knock me down
It would make my resentment mean something
And then at least there would be a reason 
That it happened at all.
But I doubt it was contrived. I think it was only by an unhappy mischance
That an elbow should brush against my smooth surface
And cause the fall.
 
I couldn't hold on. I couldn't catch myself.
Every fraction of clay was once a part of me
One shape
A purpose.
With the loss of this shape, and the loss of the purpose,
The fragments left on the floor in the wake of the fall
I suppose are no longer
Anything.
 
I'm trying to count the pieces. Three, four, five,
I'm trying to convince myself that if I know the number of pieces
If I memorize the shape of them
If I can see the outline of the ghost of meaning
I can hold onto these little pieces of myself
I can remember what I looked like
Who I was
Which is at least something.
But I can't recognize the damaged shapes
As me.
 
I wish these people would stop trying to fix me. I am crippled, useless, too far gone
They don’t understand things broken beyond repair.
I want them to leave me alone so that I can grieve my death in gray peace.
They speak to me, promise to heal me,
e
As if the pieces were part of a precious puzzle.
But everything in me is frozen in that moment before the fall,
The last moment in which I was me.
Broken things have no place there
And there is nothing left after the moment has passed.
 
I open my eyes.
 
What is this? 
Where there were shattered pieces
Now stands something
Incompletely whole.
I can see the outlines of the damaged shapes hidden in the shape of the bowl.
Where there was empty, tormenting space between useless shards
There are gold
Scars.
Restoring the purpose, veins of gold wind through
The useless shards of clay.
I have died but somehow am alive
Scarred and smooth,
And fragmented and whole.
 
There is something important here
That was not here before.
Strongest in the weak places,
The name of it is
Whole brokenness. 
blemishless scars. 
Perfect ruins.
Beautiful ugliness.
Where I was nothing
There is this thing that makes me the most I have ever been.
 
Could it be that in the moments before the fall
When I was whole and purposeful
There was something beyond which I could know and which I lacked
That I was then 
Insufficient?
Could my wholeness be manifest in the fractures?
 
Without these veins of gold 
Which lovingly trace my brokenness, 
The pieces of clay would be dirt on the floor.
But with them
The fall which broke me and made me useless
Becomes the instrument of all that is now valuable in me.
Where I thought I was nothing
There is that important thing that was not here before.
 
Everything I am meant to do
Everything that makes me valuable
Weave through the scars that prove I am damaged.
Fragmented shards of something complete,
A broken wholeness.
 
I am not who I was.
Still shattered, somehow whole,
Rebuilt with loving hands who
Saw a path to myself that I could not see.
On the other side of the fall,
Rich with purpose,
The name of what I am is imperfectly
 
Perfect.


© Copyright 2018 AbigailG. All rights reserved.

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