fragmented

The shards of me,

in so many different colors and shapes and sizes,

like shattered glass they lay before me.

Some are more sharp than others,

some look more intimidating,

some are jagged on the edges,

while some are much more smooth.

My instinct is to worry that touching them might cut me,

or worse, cut you.

Instead of fearing these broken bits and pieces,

I carefully cradle and inspect them, one by one.

I ask them what shaped them, how they became fragmented.

I listen closely as I piece together the puzzle of my past, 

each addition lending to increased compassion

and adding a richness to what’s made me, me.

I solder my shards in an effort to make myself look whole again,

standing back,

I begin to see it as art. 

Who knew,

that the fragments of my wounds could become the most beautiful stained glass window,

that tells a story of who and why I am,

fully transparent for the world to see,

as the sunlight shines love into each and every piece of me.