Broken

I wish you could switch on the lights and see my scars, turn off the music and concentrate on my shattered smile. I’m not a full manuscript but a synopsis. I don’t come in chapters but a prologue. I belong in a downer department with missing pages. I’m like a refugee in Donald Trump’s presidency, hidden behind best-selling book shelves, and will forever remain banned from libraries and toddler classes. Your departure has left a big dark whole inside my soul, and it can be stuffed with nothing else except your angelic soul.