The hardest part of being broken,
Is being most attracted
And attractive to
People who are broken too.
Stained glass personalities with cracks like our own,
Whose light shines rosy red in the shadows
Cast by the dirt, dust, and debris,
That holds our own light incomplete.
We see in them,
And they in us,
The amalgam of ourselves and love.
So we cling like the very dust
That chokes our lungs with lust,
Not for beauty, or body,
But for the light that we've
Been taught we so desperately need.
Because pretty things mean little without light,
And color is nothing in the dark.
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