They called her Broken

They called her broken.

That's what she was was.

Her parts were scattered across the floor like files on a messy office floor. Her hopes and dreams were melting away in her shaking hands. They were shattered on the floor like ceramic.

She had tried so hard to put herself back together.

But she was distraught.

She had never quite gotten it right. One leg and one arm, stitched together. Another leg, angled in what she though was an elegant fashion. She tried to use elegance to hide herself. Her arms clutched a leg, hoping to steady it, keep it from collapsing. Another, third leg stuck out at an angle, but it was not her own. She had tried to take from others what she so much desired. She clutched a chair. She shook all over. A hand that was not hers, clutched an unknown object.

I could see myself in a museum. "Broken and Misplaced" would be my caption. People would look at me, to ease their stupid worries, shake their heads in mock disappointment, trying to make themselves feel better.

When the museum closed, the statues and paintings, such beautiful works, would laugh at me. "Who are you?" they would ask.

They would laugh.

They would call me broken.

That's what I would be.