She was the window, I the young child.
One day I saw her:
glass broken, utterly shattered.
Horrified, I quickly gathered her pieces,
and tried what I could
to glue them back together.

As time past,
she was on her way to completion.
It was then that I was able to see
through the pane that at first was so hard to see.
What resided inside was handfuls of dirt,
most likely a confirmation
that she was indeed in a lot of hurt.

Each night I'd work on the window,
cleaning out the wads and making it the best it could be.
Little did I realize,
as I was working on it,
it was cutting deep into me.
Long nights of work,
created days of great pain.
I tried and tried to keep working,
but my hands were immensely bloody.
It was quite an effort for me to keep my sanity.

My hope started to dwindle
as the days passed by,
Too soon I lost it,
and pulled my stones out.
A strange addiction it all became:
To throw stones at the window,
then at night, cast them far far away.

My hands calloused and bruised.
My heart on an emotional joyride.
The window went back and forth like a see-saw.
Shattered, repaired.
Shattered, repaired.

One day again,
the window was close to complete.
That's when I saw the cracks.
Glaring straight at me.
No matter what I did,
it would still be broken.
My hands and heart,
only to be it's token.

Giving up,
I lunged a boulder at it
and walked home.
Whether or not I ruined it forever,
I will never truly know.
My greatest fear now being
that I may have well become
that unmendable broken window.
Written: 2015
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