I wish I could write of beauty and wonder, and perfection, if it existed, but I don’t believe I have it within me, my words come out as harsh and grating. Instead, my confessionals are here to behold, laid out upon the table, endless pages scattered, ink haphazardly scrawled. Some stains are crimson, the harsh colour of a bleeding soul, others black, from the thread of loose stitches, sewn were once-gaping, murmuring holes. I have detailed such confessions for us and myself, maybe for them, in fact, for us all, I have so many moments which I could share, but I can’t, don’t, dare wish to purposefully overwhelm, of others’ mental state and welfare, I truly do care. Exquisite beauty and wonder, they will need to, have to wait, I have too much of a journey to detail and dictate, and surprisingly, this has a splendour all of its own, in a rather extraordinary, perfect kind of way, my destiny was etched into stone. A silver lining, revelations are beautiful, too, I will never forget this realisation that raw and broken, a staggering doll now in pieces on the floor could melt hearts which were previously unfeeling and frozen solid, despite it all, this doll's presence will never be easily forgotten. I have become whole, I have become well and truly alive, for when my story is registered, for when my soul is recognised, I feel that little bit less fractured into tiny pieces within my insides. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Photo by Noémi Macavei-Katócz on Unsplash
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