You look at me as though I am broken
And you want to fix me with golden leaf,
Let it whisper into my cracks and crevices,
Restore me to something resembling belief.

I am not some clay-baked ancient pottery, scattered
Amongst the dirt, waiting to be restored.
I am no ember of a memory needing breath into existence,
To be held in fragile hands and then forever reassured.

I know. I am different now.
I bleed, I fail, I ache. But, I do heal.
You can keep fearing my departure, or crumbling,
But I am here now. And this is real.

Your touch lingers on, ever irreverent,
Painting plains of scars a different kind of gold,
Sealing me into my skin with your own,
This is the life onto which I will hold.

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