Cracked Pavement
Story Content
Cracked pavement, that's what my heart feels like today.
Lines spiderwebbing out from a central wound,
marking every misstep, every fall, every time I thought I was unbreakable.
Remember scraped knees on asphalt?
That stinging, burning clean.
I thought adulthood would be different.
Cleaner.
Turns out, the scrapes just go deeper.
Leave scars you can't see, but feel every time the weather changes.
He used to trace the lines on my palm,
say they told the story of my life.
I wish I'd asked him to read the cracks on my face instead.
They're a lot more honest.
My therapist says I need to embrace the imperfections.
Says the cracks let the light in.
But sometimes, the light just blinds you.
Shows you how broken you really are.
I hate the platitudes.
'Everything happens for a reason.'
Tell that to the kids with cancer.
Tell that to the families torn apart by war.
Reasons don't heal wounds.
Time does, maybe.
Or maybe you just learn to live with the ache.
My grandmother used to mend her clothes,
carefully patching up holes with scraps of fabric.
She said it was a sign of respect.
Respect for the garment, for the work that went into it, for the life it had lived.
I wonder if I can mend myself that way.
Piece by piece, memory by memory.
Stitching the broken parts back together with kindness and forgiveness.
It's not about erasing the cracks.
It's about acknowledging them.
Seeing the beauty in the imperfection.
The strength in the scars.
I saw a flower growing out of a crack in the sidewalk yesterday.
Tiny, defiant, impossibly green.
It didn't ask for permission.
It just reached for the sun.
Maybe that's the answer.
Not to pretend the cracks aren't there.
But to find the sunlight anyway.
To bloom, even when the ground is hard and unforgiving.
Maybe one day I'll look in the mirror and see not a broken thing,
but a testament to survival.
A map of a life lived fully, fiercely, imperfectly.
Cracked pavement, yes.
But still standing.
Still breathing.
Still reaching.
And that, I think, is enough.
That has to be enough.
Lines spiderwebbing out from a central wound,
marking every misstep, every fall, every time I thought I was unbreakable.
Remember scraped knees on asphalt?
That stinging, burning clean.
I thought adulthood would be different.
Cleaner.
Turns out, the scrapes just go deeper.
Leave scars you can't see, but feel every time the weather changes.
He used to trace the lines on my palm,
say they told the story of my life.
I wish I'd asked him to read the cracks on my face instead.
They're a lot more honest.
My therapist says I need to embrace the imperfections.
Says the cracks let the light in.
But sometimes, the light just blinds you.
Shows you how broken you really are.
I hate the platitudes.
'Everything happens for a reason.'
Tell that to the kids with cancer.
Tell that to the families torn apart by war.
Reasons don't heal wounds.
Time does, maybe.
Or maybe you just learn to live with the ache.
My grandmother used to mend her clothes,
carefully patching up holes with scraps of fabric.
She said it was a sign of respect.
Respect for the garment, for the work that went into it, for the life it had lived.
I wonder if I can mend myself that way.
Piece by piece, memory by memory.
Stitching the broken parts back together with kindness and forgiveness.
It's not about erasing the cracks.
It's about acknowledging them.
Seeing the beauty in the imperfection.
The strength in the scars.
I saw a flower growing out of a crack in the sidewalk yesterday.
Tiny, defiant, impossibly green.
It didn't ask for permission.
It just reached for the sun.
Maybe that's the answer.
Not to pretend the cracks aren't there.
But to find the sunlight anyway.
To bloom, even when the ground is hard and unforgiving.
Maybe one day I'll look in the mirror and see not a broken thing,
but a testament to survival.
A map of a life lived fully, fiercely, imperfectly.
Cracked pavement, yes.
But still standing.
Still breathing.
Still reaching.
And that, I think, is enough.
That has to be enough.
About This Story
Genres: Poetry
Description: A reflection on the scars of life, the beauty in imperfections, and the quiet strength found in acceptance.