I Am...

Paper crumpled too many times.

Smoothed out, but still left with scars.

Screams like the howl of the wind,

Tears like the pouring of the rain.

Lifeblood pooling far and wide,

Like spilled ink crawling upon sheets of parchment.

Smudged words and phrases,

Muddled in my mind and around my head,

Caught in my hair and entwined

Like strings tangled in branches in a gale.

Raging storms and dusky skies,

Shadows behind trees and blotted blood.

Fingers and heart stained with black.

Nightmarish dreams.

Broken.

No.

Creased paper can still be written on.

Harsh winds and rain can become soft and calming.

Ink can be cleared and saved,

Gathered tightly, safely, in its home.

Strings can gently be untangled and untied,

Without cutting or tearing any pieces to get free.

Quiet gusts and lightening skies,

Sunlight playing in the forest and clean green grass.

Fingers and heart blemished,

But not ruined nor corrupt.

Sweet dreams and peace.

Even the shattered will always

Find a way, will always become whole.

Always in the process of gluing myself back together.

Stronger.

Brighter.

One day, I can say:
I am me.
I am proud.
I am joyful.

I am whole.

This poem is about: 
Me

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