I feel like a toy
that has been loved too hard
and lived too long.
A doll with loose joints,
cracked seams,
and limbs that don’t always stay
where they’re supposed to.
Every morning
I pick myself up
and check what is broken today.
A shoulder slipping loose.
A spine protesting.
A body aching
from simply existing.
So I patch myself together.
Tape around the places
that won’t hold.
Glue in the cracks.
Stitches across the tears.
Medication.
Braces.
Heating pads.
Rest.
Whatever keeps the pieces
from falling apart.
Sometimes I imagine
setting myself on a repair-shop counter
and saying,
Please fix me.
Tighten the screws.
Replace the damaged parts.
Make me work
the way I was supposed to.
But there is no repair shop
for a body like mine.
No box of spare pieces.
No instruction manual.
No magical pair of hands
that can make me new again.
So I have learned
a different kind of repair.
I patch the cracks with patience.
Hold the loose pieces with compassion.
Wrap the aching places in gentleness.
And when I cannot stand,
I let myself lie still
without calling myself useless.
Because broken toys
are often thrown away.
But I am not a toy.
I am a person
living inside a body
that requires constant mending.
And maybe strength
isn’t pretending
I am unbreakable.
Maybe strength
is waking up scattered
and gathering my pieces anyway.
Holding them carefully.
Tenderly.
And whispering,
You are still here.
Not perfect.
Not fixed.
Not untouched.
But still worthy
of being held.
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