Baskadia

Seeing myself with every piece scattered in the room. Before I was valued,praised for it's beauty but now am nothing but just a dangerous weapon. They pick me up only to trash me because they are afraid that my sharpness would make their legs to bleed. I don't blame them because I know that my own weight led to my downfall. I wish I had been lighter that day maybe he wouldn't have smashed me to the ground. Nothing is more unrealistic than the thought of self repair.

All that see me live me there, a few of them pick pieces of me and make me a decoration. I ask"can they see me? Why can't they hear me shouting in pain? Can they see my desire of wanting to be one again. Surrounded with so much life yet lifeless".