Broken skin
on the knee
of me, aged three
is something that a plaster
could cover and soothe
A broken bone
in the leg
of you, who knew
it was something that plaster
could cover and soothe
A broken tyre
on that car,
of ours, a mar
that could be replaced
and covered and soothed
But a broken heart
and no joy
from a boy, whose toy
was you, where no words
could fix and soothe the pain
And broken skin
from the mess
you're in, and over the din
of the voices in your head,
nothing can fix and soothe you
And a broken home,
from the shouts
and the rage that's at a stage
where it won't go away,
can't be fixed and soothed
Sometimes life isn't as simple
as a graze from the floor
or a clean break
or a bump on a journey
Sometimes life is painful
and broken
and the wounds and the thoughts and the mess and the noise and the agony
can't be fixed in a day or a week or a month or a year
but that's okay, and you're okay
because a soul isn't something that can be broken,
completely
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I am not the weight on the scales,
or the width of the tape measure,
or the size of my feet,
or the length of my hair.
