Incomplete. {Poetry Reading}

Hear me.

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 piece.
A bloody fracture, pleading, beating to be a part of it,
And–I am
For, without me, without you, without all of it,  
This world would be incomplete. ~Rebecca 

 

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