Broken

Broken.
That’s the best way to say it.
I’m broken.
I may look solid enough to you on the outside.
But take a closer look and see the fragile stamp on my chest.
"This end up" is somewhere on the top of my head.
It’s under the hair though so don’t bother looking.
Of all the people in this world that have hurt me I never thought you would join their ranks.

I never believed I could feel pain this deep. Why doesn’t it stop hurting?
I can feel it from the "This end up" sign,
to the tips of my unpainted toenails.
Coursing through every fiber, every vein, every piece of me.
Starting at my heart and pulsing out in waves.
Crash.
Hit a breakwall in the stomach area.
Slice.
Just moved through my ankles.
I’m breaking.
The pieces are becoming just that, pieces.
Didn’t we just buy some glue, some scotch tape, some staples?
Pass the office supplies. I’ll fix this. Where is my easy button?
Must be out of order.
Must be
broken.