State of Repair

The damaged gravitate towards me,
as if they can somehow sense
the wreckage inside my heart.

There are these rusted parts
of my former self
stored in the waste pit of my mind,
left to be forgotten
until no memory remains.

I find that certain people can see
those troubled parts of me
when they look in my eyes.

It's as if we share a high voltage
connection that surges through
the wounds we carry with us,
even though the shock we experience
without touching, or saying a word
creates a feeling that chills
our skin like when lightening strikes.

People like us have this barrier
that we've constructed from broken
bones and fractured smiles;
we survive
in a constant state of repair.