It’s my third day back at school and my feet have already forgotten the familiar rhythm of right before left and I, am once again, crying at the bottom of a staircase. “It’s just a sprain.”
Another brace collecting dust in the darkest corner of my closet.
My friends make jokes about this broken body.
They laugh at how I’m made of glass, but I’ve yet to cut myself on the broken pieces of me,
pieces that you can find scattered around bar bathrooms, and dorm rooms, and unavoidably,
A beautiful mess of bones and joints that never seemed to fit quite right.
There is no healing in this broken body. I bend.
Just a broken girl on broken feet. A miracle, that I am still standing.