I am not a problem to be fixed.
You keep bringing me tape and glue and bone marrow, hoping that I will learn to heal,
that I will learn to love.
I am not a glass that needs to be filled.
You keep pouring everything into me,
confused as to why I am still empty.
This emptiness is filling.
This brokenness is healing.
I am not a fucking project,
and dammit, I don’t need you to make me whole.