When her heart broke the first time she was glass shards; shattered. Splintered and spiked, a hand where the pain lived came away red ribboned, flesh stinging. If others offered a shoulder, a hand, a hug, they snagged, reeling away torn on her sharp edges and fragile barbs. She licked her wounds with a bleeding tongue and spat her bloody fragments at anyone foolish enough to get close.

 

When her heart broke a second time, it cracked like an egg; fragile shell crushed, her soft, unctuous insides sliding out. She let herself be devoured, so her soft centre didn’t go to waste. She was fed upon, licked clean, left empty so others were nourished. The world crushed her, she let herself be crushed. She was consumed with being consumed, subsumed to the needs of others so she could slip free from her pain.

 

When her heart broke a third time, it smashed like an old vase. She was cracks, she was chips and crazing. Something to be discarded. But broken things have beauty. Damaged things have strength. She pieced herself back together, now she’s veined with gold. She’ll never be as she was. Her breaks and fissures tell the story of who she is, and where she’s been. The gold tracery speaks of how well she loved and was loved. That gold glows fiery in the low sun of winter; think otherwise, and you won’t find favour with her kintsugi heart.

 

 

 

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Jude is a full-time carer and some-time writer of flash fiction focusing on wry, dry and sly looks at human failings (usually her own). She believes shared joy and humour can change the world for the better and tries to contribute. Once (accurately) called a pickled plum by the school photographer.

@judepickledplum         jude_pickledplum

Image courtesy of Jude Potts

 

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