kintsugi

my private tragedies are
my best kept secrets.
the moments i have been
at my weakest,
a forgotten relic, dilapidated.
experiences i have endured,
and never once spoken about,
for it is my words
which offer them a home.
if i am to be known,
it will not be by my pain.
my tears are not baubles,
not decorative fixtures
for people to marvel at.
i have made the mistake,
of showing my bruises
to those who gave me new ones.
poking and prodding at them,
even as excruciating pain
flared through every nerve.
i become a novelty,
an object to be gazed at,
through glass panes.
a circus attraction.
too often, they focus on the cracks,
when it is really the molten gold
between them,
that makes me who i am.