I take that part of me that is broken and make it a ghost, a ghost that falls away and becomes nothing. What remains is myself, strong and ready to move on. For this is the power of love, the power to kiss goodbye and move on with grace and certainty, eyes forward and heart ready for what goodness comes my way.


She was broken now, shattered really, robbed early of the tape and glue necessary to put her soul back together. Her heart, poorly stapled shut, was beating hard but without purpose, her skin stretched across her aching muscles like a worn canvas. Her mind was like a lost man at sea, desperate and starving for some reason to live. Desperate for a memory, good, warm, welcoming, one she could smile to. It was difficult to remember her smile, soft but contagious, it had stained her lips like blood, the same blood she could taste as she bit her tongue hard to keep from screaming. But no one had seen her smile, not since the first time she stepped into that office. Not since the first time that woman had touched her, her grip hot and menacing, her mind soaking in the fear and newfound pain, this woman, relishing every moment she could slip her hands inside of her, eyes darting all across her face and body, hungry, desperate to fill her own desire that could only be done by trespassing and taking what wasn't hers, what can be only taken once, holding her back and holding her down from a life that from the outside looked at only as one in repair, not in destruction.

By emhart, June 10, 2016*.

A child's doll discovered many years later, with cracks in the face spiraling down to the body. Strewn aside, disregarded.
A girl, sitting by herself in the cafe, her face smudged with makeup after a long, harsh day. Sipping her mug, not bothering to hide her unhappiness. The cracks in her mind suddenly becoming visible, her emotions uncontrollable, her life dark. Looking back, wishing she hadn't strewn aside the doll, understanding now.

How alike they are, both being cracked and damaged.

Seemingly not repairable..

With memories held within..

Being broken.

By mydearpoetic, January 24, 2015.
Family Life

Yolanda held up the coffee grinder, the lid bound tight with yellow caution tape she'd rummaged out of the garage. Her mom frowned, "I'd bet you money that doesn't work anymore."

Yolanda placed it on the machine and in an instant the noise of the traffic outside was drowned out by the machine. "See, not broken, plus it's twenty seven percent cooler; no extra charge." She jutted out her hip for her right hand to fall on.

Mom developed one of her lop-sided grimace-smiles and raised her drawn-on eyebrows. "Hmmm, twenty seven percent cooler and fifty eight percent crapper."

Yolanda burst out into one of her roaring belly laughs, "Yeah, and what was the bet worth?"

Mom let out a snort, "Nothin', it'll be broken by Tuesday."

By Angela Abraham, @daisydescriptionari, September 3, 2015.