I am perfectly imperfect, a flaw made flesh,
edges worn thin by surviving.

I am broken, not shattered because even ruin knows
when to stop.

I am too much in every room, a weight no one admits they feel,
and still never enough to be held without conditions.

I am seen the way storms are seen watched from a distance,
respected, never invited inside.

I am full of things I was never meant to carry, and starving for something I no longer know
how to ask for.

© 2026 Wynter Rayne. All rights reserved.