There will always be something missing.
I keep trying to stuff it all inside, patch myself up,
But I came into the world like this–
Half made; we all did.
Making peace with the incompleteness is the journey.
Not filling the void is the work.
How could I ever be whole when I’m meant to be incomplete?
I am not the quail grazing in the rocks,
Nor the oleander drying her dewy leaves in the morning sun
I am not the moon,
Nor the stars
Not yet, not now
I am one of billions—
A bloody fracture, pleading, beating to be a part of it,
For, without me, without you, without all of it,
This world would be incomplete. ~Rebecca