Broken Like Me

I recognize it in you

before you say a word—

that quiet heaviness,

the way you carry yourself

like you’re holding something

no one else can see.

You smile

at the right moments,

say the right things,

move through the world

like you’ve learned

how to pass for okay.

But I see the cracks.

Not the kind

that shatter everything—

the kind that run deep,

silent,

just beneath the surface.

The kind you hide

because explaining them

would take too long,

and most people

wouldn’t stay long enough

to understand.

That’s how I know—

you’re broken

like me.

Not ruined.

Not beyond repair.

Just shaped

by things

that didn’t ask permission

before they changed you.

We don’t talk about it.

We don’t need to.

There’s something

in the way we exist

around each other—

a quiet recognition,

a shared language

made of what we don’t say.

And maybe that’s enough.

Not fixing.

Not saving.

Just knowing

you’re not the only one

walking around

with pieces that don’t quite fit

the way they used to.

Broken—

but still here.

Still feeling.

Still finding ways

to hold together

in a world

that never promised

we wouldn’t fall apart.