My Simplest Form

I am broken that is my simplest form. Not in shards, but in folded faults like paper creased too many times it becomes soft, almost sacred. They called me whole when I was quiet. They mistook my silence for resolution. But silence was just the breath I held between scream and surrender. I walked the corridors of other people's love like a thief in borrowed shoes, returning everything except myself. I am the ink smeared by rain on the envelope no one opened. The left-behind syntax of someone who once meant something to someone but no longer fits their grammar. I am broken and so I echo better. So I resonate truer. So I bleed in rhythm when no one watches. This is not weakness. It is symmetry, rediscovered in collapse. I am broken and that is my simplest form. That is how I slip into yours without splinters.