This is not the story of one
But of many

We mold each other
Potters shaping wet clay
I want to deny it

No, this has not happened to me

But it has

You were trite
So self-assured
Lost your morality

Potters of a maligned craft

Seven of you
Making me and others into faulty jars
Cracked mugs
Jagged shards of an incomplete piece

I can remember
It was five years ago
One thousand eight hundred and twenty six days
Forty three thousand eight hundred and twenty four hours

I can still remember

The freezing pain of your silence
Burning sideways glances
Whispers cutting deeper than shattered glass ever could
Sitting among you
At the same time being alone

You extended your friendship
I thought I belonged

Dragged me along on a string
A bright, shiny toy


Thrown out
Just like the unknown others
Before and afterwards

You, the treasure
The collectors
The potters
The destructive children

I, the trash
The obtained
The clay
The toy

I meant so little
So little to you

I died and became anew
I was a shadow to you
An illusion of a presence

You killed me with the words
The terrible words

When you talked about me
Quietly releasing your poisonous inner thoughts

One instant whole

One moment shattered

One word

Changed forever

What had I done to you
What had we done
We nameless numerous victims

Stripped of our confidence
No love for ourselves
Not anymore

I locked mine away in a box
A box forged from fear
And put it somewhere

But I forget the place

I cannot find it anymore

You convinced us
Convinced us we were wrong

My clothes
Her hair
His likes
My dislikes

Everyone and everything
Had to be like you

My personality
My mind
My speech
My manner
My actions

All wrong

My lips were sewn together
Bound by your words

You had spoken,
and I could not

Thread crafted by all our hands

Your persecution
My own fear
Wove this binding twine

This binding twine whose frayed strands can be felt even today

I spoke only when spoken to
I speak only when spoken to

We are desperately searching
Desperately grasping
Needing a way to escape our self-constructed solitude

There was no light
Not at the end of the tunnel

Not even faith was a refuge
You came to the House of my God

Love and acceptance, every one of you said

“I would touch the lepers as he once did,” you said
“I would champion the weak”
“I would”

Judging quickly
Judging easily
What has become a walking biblical allegory

I, too dirty
Too unlike the rest
We were the lepers

No one stepped forward
No good Samaritan among you

Time heals us slowly

Our sores disappear

I raised my head to the sky
Expressed fears

I found those who would sympathize

I was a flower in their garden
Extending towards
Reaching for the light

I can still feel it
The ghost of your contrition
Hanging itself on my every action

I feel it standing before peers
Pick my outfit
Look at myself
Form an opinion
Make an impression

When I submit

I struggle with the burden we bestowed upon me

Could it go away?
Disappear into nothingness?

No fear
No reservations

I can only imagine what every day would be like

But slowly, the burden becomes a gift
The gift to become stronger

Some days are raw
But not all
Not anymore

Now there is more confidence
And more love

The sun rises
The light spreads
and the flower still grows

I am rebuilding

I am becoming

~Baring and Bearing It All, by Anonymous
“The meaning of my work, I think, is of self-acceptance. Of over coming the ideas others put in your head about your self, whether it be things like “Fat” or “Ugly” or “Stupid” or “Strange”. Yes, these words can hurt you. But you can heal, turn those experiences into armor for the future. It’s slow and hard going, but the feeling you get at the end is unlike any other. Tell yourself what you are – don’t let others define you.”

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