Although the process of dealing with personal trauma and mental illness can often be an ugly, messy struggle, the process does not make an individual any less valuable. I am reminded of Kitsungi, the ancient Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. None of us are without our own personal tragedies and uniquely beautiful healing processes. This is for everyone who is struggling right now. Not only is healing possible, but so is feeling whole again. is possible. I hope this poem brings you as much peace as it has brought me.

Healing

There was a girl

who gave

far too much

of herself

to the world

in the name of love.

She would be willing

to carve out her heart.

If only she was asked,

she would give it away.

Much was taken from her,

much to her shame,

but she did not protest.

She merely hid her pain

and painted on a face

she hoped

could pass for a smile

to ward her sadness away.

She bottled it up

and raised a facade

and pretended

it was gone.

It was not long

before she discovered

she could only

cut herself

into so many pieces

before she began

to fall apart.

When the tears started,

a flood came

and washed away

what remained

of the mortar.

It melted the glue

that held her together.

Paper walls dissolved.

The ink began to bleed.

The colors mixed

chaotically.

Her neatly stacked

rows of boxes

that once packed away

her deep dark shame

spilled and flowed out

all the same

as the rest

she put on display.

She looked at the mire

and ceased to cry

because her tears

could not wash

the mud away.

What remained

of the amorphousness

she used to create.

She took the sludge

of all the pain

of all her fears

of her broken defenses

and fallen fortifications

and turned it into clay.

She began to sculpt

a new home for her soul

in place of the prison cells

that held her in before.

Her new abode

was open to the flow

of the air and the light

with no more dark corners

or places to hide.

She did not attempt

to disguise the nature

of what she was made.

The cracks and the streaks

and the scars in the clay

were what gave her away

as human,

and that, she thought,

was beautiful.