Broken

I am broken. This does not mean I am irredeemable, or irreconcilable, though sometimes I feel that way. My demons are shadowy and looming, lurking in the dark corners of my mind, of which there are many. There are alleyways among my synapses populated by the specters of my past, each less inviting than the last.

I am broken. The theme park of my mind is a torrent of wave pools and roller coasters devised by a sadistic voyeur. Vendors rise from the narrow lanes peddling memories of failure and desperation fueled by the warped excuse for love I was taught to endure. Every endlessly embarrassing moment catalogued and photographed, glossed and glamoured for sale that they might never be relinquished fully to the past.

I am broken. I learned to receive love as if it were a treat, as if my existence were defined by my usefulness to another, as if there were no purpose to me beyond business transactions in a twisted market. I do not know how to receive love, or how to love myself. I only know how to hope I can sell myself.

I am broken. I am like a wounded animal, wary of human touch lest I be forced to sell myself yet again, to choke down my disgust at each piece of myself and find my path to surviving another day in hopes of redemption. Hope is an opiate, and I find myself in short supply.

I am broken. There is no solace to be found in the desert of my mindscape. There will be no comfort here. I must press on in the night.

I am broken. And I am likely to remain so for quite some time.