I have been considering
kintsugi, and how
we heal ourselves,
we who are no longer whole,
and if we can
be beautiful
and flawed
and flawed
and beautiful.

I have considered
my scars, not golden,
not joyful,
not thoughtful, but
silver pale, glistening,
secret lines,
hidden from view,
and wondering
if I can be beautiful
even though
I can never be
mended, not entirely.

I am broken,
re-made,
broken again,
mended. I am
burnt, cut,
poisoned,
damaged.
I am not
who I was,
and yet I am
still here,
beautiful
and flawed
and flawed
and beautiful.