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a key to a broken lock

I grew up believing that making myself small was the key to fixing my broken family. I broke my bones and cut off my limbs So I could squeeze inside their box. I made myself into something I never was, Manageable, bite-sized pieces. I made myself easy to digest. If I was able to be less of myself, I would make others whole. I believe I was the key to a mangled, unfixable lock. And all I had were bruised knuckles And black eyes And a butchered body lacking love.

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