To be rejected by someone doesn't mean you should also reject yourself or that you should think of yourself as a lesser person. It doesn't mean that nobody will ever love you anymore. Remember that only ONE person has rejected you at the moment, and it only hurt so much because to you, that person's opinion symbolized the opinion of the whole world, of God.
To find out if she really loved me, I hooked her up to a lie detector. And just as I suspected, my machine was broken.
Yes, I understand why things had to happen this way. I understand his reason for causing me pain. But mere understanding does not chase away the hurt. It does not call upon the sun when dark clouds have loomed over me. Let the rain come then if it must come! And let it wash away the dust that hurt my eyes!
But hurry, let's entwine ourselves as one, our mouth broken, our soul bitten by love, so time discovers us safely destroyed.
So I am not a broken heart. I am not the weight I lost or miles or ran and I am not the way I slept on my doorstep under the bare sky in smell of tears and whiskey because my apartment was empty and if I were to be this empty I wanted something solid to sleep on. Like concrete. I am not this year and I am not your fault.I am muscles building cells, a little every day, because they broke that day,but bones are stronger once they heal and I am smiling to the bus driver and replacing my groceries once a week and I am not sitting for hours in the shower anymore. I am the way a life unfolds and bloom and seasons come and go and I am the way the spring always finds a way to turn even the coldest winter into a field of green and flowers and new life. I am not your fault.
Who fixes broken people? Is it only other broken people, ones who've already been ruined? And do we need to be fixed? It was the messiness and hurt in our pasts that drove us, and that same hurt connected us at a subdermal level, the kind of scars written so deeply in your cells that you can't even see them anymore, only recognize them in someone else.
When you really love someone, you see all their mess and their brokenness and you love them anyway. In fact, seeing all of that sort of makes you love them more.
My father gave me a ruined boy to compensate for the fact that he does not love me. The boy is fragile, broken—broke himself—broke everything.I asked him why he did it. He said because the world was unlivable. He said it was unlovable, but I think he meant himself. I think he meant that loneliness is sometimes painful.I curl against him, tuck my head beneath his chin and listen to his heart. It says stay and wait. It says regret. He knows what it is to want love, a love so fierce you grow roots. I hear his heart say please. He went looking for angels and found me instead, girl of the sorrows, sad but not sorry. I waited for a sign, a star to fall. He reached for a knife and drew branches.
It is our wounds that create in us a desire to reach for miracles. The fulfillment of such miracles depends on whether we let our wounds pull us down or lift us up towards our dreams.
The Young Man came to the Old Man seeking counsel.I broke something, Old Man.How badly is it broken?It's in a million little pieces.I'm afraid I can't help you.Why?There's nothing you can do.Why?It can't be fixed.Why?It's broken beyond repair. It's in a million little pieces.
I once had a dreams of becoming a beautiful poet, but upon an unfortunate series of events some of those dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again, sparkling and broken.But I didn't really mind, because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted, and then losing it to know what true freedom is.
...It’s hard to watchthe game we make of love,like everyone’s playing checkerswith their scars,saying checkmatewhenever they get outwithout a broken heart.Just to be clearI don’t want to get outwithout a broken heart.I intend to leave this lifeso shatteredthere’s gonna have to bea thousand separate heavensfor all of my flying parts.
She made broken look beautifuland strong look invincible.She walked with the Universeon her shoulders and made itlook like a pair of wings.
They'll say you are bador perhaps you are mador at least you should stay undercover.Your mind must be bareif you would dareto think you can love more than one lover.
We are all wonderful, beautiful wrecks. That's what connects us--that we're all broken, all beautifully imperfect.
I’ll tell you another secret, this one for your own good. You may think the past has something to tell you. You may think that you should listen, should strain to make out its whispers, should bend over backward, stoop down low to hear its voice breathed up from the ground, from the dead places. You may think there’s something in it for you, something to understand or make sense of.But I know the truth: I know from the nights of Coldness. I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together what was broken. It’s hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight. It will build inside of you like a stone.Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging at your back and running its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do—the only thing— is run.
Listen to God with a broken heart. He is not only the doctor who mends it, but also the father who wipes away the tears.
Love is as simple as the absence of self given to another. God, when invited, fills the void of any unrequited love; hence loving is how one is drawn closer to God no matter its most horrific repercussions.
Stop trying to 'fix' yourself, you're NOT broken! You are perfectly imperfect and powerful beyond measure.
I wear a necklace of hope with pearly beads. When I met you, it broke, and the beads spilled all over the floor, into the gutters.
Endings are abstruse, mystic and unreal. They are but depleted beginnings purposed to be substituted with newer ones.A transition of outlook and time, similar to our differing moods before and after slumber. Before the act we witness an exhaustion, a sulkiness but on gaining consciousness, we’re rejuvenated and good humored. The wakefulness is the new beginning whereas the tension the disturbance we perceive each night is the weariness of the beginnings, of each day. So there never really is an end, all that there are are beginnings.Beginnings which are promising, which offer hope, which have a new leash on life, which neither denounce nor belittle rather soothe and console by reconstructing the broken pieces of yesterday, mending them and reinforcing them with courage and beauty like never before.
I was moving around with my imperfect, broken pieces until you came across and stitched my flaws with your words.
God is my strength and my defense. When I am weak, he makes me strong. When I am broken, he makes me whole.
There comes a point where you no longer care if there’s a light at the end of the tunnel or not. You’re just sick of the tunnel.
She walks,on the streets,with a face that,doesn't belong.It smiles more than,many put together,whole day long.Her heart misfit,a little chipped.And she likes to,call it once broken,but now stitched.
I'll use the blood from my spilling heart to write the words that were never able to slip out of my mouth, so you can see how much you've broken me into a perpetual state of melancholy.
Public education is not broken. It is not failing or declining. The diagnosis is wrong, and the solutions of the corporate reformers are wrong. Our urban schools are in trouble because of concentrated poverty and racial segregation. But public education is not ‘broken.’ Public education is in a crisis only so far as society is and only so far as this new narrative of crisis has destabilized it.
Breaking the circle”My eyes darken when I see my new lover. Fresh prey.My body doesn’t really react in a sexual way.It’s the devil inside me that celebrates next conquest.We exchange meaningless sweet words.His hungry gaze penetrates my breasts and ass.Another drink and laughter.And then another one.Sometimes I get very drunk or high.And then I don’t feel him between my legs.I don’t see his sweating face.I don’t hear his moans and questions if I came.I can’t stay sober when I cheat on you.I’m such a coward that I can’t even face this inner monster.It consumes me, it takes away my dignity. It makes me do horrible things.It hurts you, the only one who ever loved me.Who knows what I really am.No. It’s not the monster. It’s me. I am the whore.I dig my nails into your soft flesh until it bleeds.I am the one pushing you away, feasting on your kindness. I blame those hard punches of my past for my infidelity. Those cruel hands. Those hateful words. I try not to, I really do. I try to be a better person.But how can I if I am just nobody?You know why I leave. Yet you stay. You’re there when I’m back.With your sorrow and cry and resentment and wrath.Why?If I’m broken because of my pain what’s your excuse?Why do you keep letting me treat you like a stray dog?Don’t you have any respect for yourself?What the fuck is wrong with you?And just when I think I have my own slave for life you break the circle. You shut the door with a grimace of relief.You can’t look at me anymore. See, you’re finally free!My inner innocent girl is happy for you. But the monster inside kicks and laughs at me.I’m left alone.I dress up and go hunting.
I still need you. Killer, boyfriend, friend, whatever…I need you in my life…if for nothing else, to show me that it’s OK to be broken. It’s OK for things not to be OK.
Relationships may become wrecked by a quirky syndrome: the “Ain't broke, don't fix”-syndrome. When there is no interaction in the neural network and no breakthrough into the mind but only a shallow skin experience, living together might be very torturous. If a heartfelt bond has not been molded, nothing can be broken and thus nothing needs to be fixed. (“I wonder what went wrong.”)