Kell Futoll Poet Alexandrine

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.

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