Kintsugi Vase

The Winner of Outspoken’s Creative Writting Competition 2022

There is a new dent on my finger tip. 

The little pieces are all over the floor. 

I start picking them up.

There is an old dent on my leg. On my head. On my chest.

There are little dents everywhere. And I’ve tried to fix them every single time they form.

I fix them with glue

I fix them with gold.

I am full of cracks and dents. 

All these little holes are fixed with sticky lines of gold. 

But as much as I fix them, the dents keep appearing. 

I used to try to prevent them. 

Prevent the porcelain from getting broken.

But in the end, I like the little golden lines on my skin. I like how they symbolize repair. Even though more will appear, I wouldn’t stop them from doing so. 

It hurts

But in the end, breaking in any way makes us more.

More

More 

I want to be more. More than what I’ve always been and more than what I am. 

The need for more. 

It can be addicting.

Breaking on purpose is not as beautiful. Or so they tell me.

Some scars are not golden. They are blood red and fresh. I like it when my cracks fill with gold. 

But these gruesome scars, they make me feel 

A want. A want for more

There is a new crack on my wrist. Just a tiny little crack.

It’s not so bad. Nor that deep. No one will notice that this one is not golden.

But maybe they will, 

So I painted it over.

I don’t even know which cracks are originally golden anymore, 

and which ones are a fake. 

Others think more of me because of the lessons that the golden scars have given me. Compassion, empathy, hope. All these are things you gain from pain. 

Then, why do they think less of me when the scars are not golden?

Weak, problem, caller of attention. All these things you get called are imperfections you get. 

But is it really bad being weak, when it is that same weakness that helped you learn compassion? Is it really bad being a problem, when being called a problem is what helped you be able to be in another person’s place? Is it really a call for attention, when all you want to attract is a bit of hope?

I paint my scars golden to hide my imperfections. 

Nobody likes to have them out in the open 

Because they look like an open wound.

A wounded vase wouldn’t be as beautiful.

So I paint my scars golden. 

And it works! 

Isn’t it wonderful? 

I finally made myself work!

At last

With all this red and gold dripping on the ceramic turntable

At last

I’m finally worthy.

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