marina salazar | seven | cb

I am

an exceptionally broken thing—

It has always been as simple as that, one way or the other. Ruined beyond reparation, and desperately, tragically acceptant of my own fate. Be it a poverish girl with an over-worked father, or the lone rose in a field of briar and brush: I have never quite succeeded in ways a person ought to succeed.

I never built up a career so that I could live a better life, I just married my high school sweetheart, who happened to be wealthy. I never held the hands of my children when we walked through places devoid of stained glass windows and freshly cut lawns, but they grew up still.

My life has been a series of hitting the bullseye despite taking my shots in the dark, and if it might make me less human, if it might make me less of a mother or a wife, it makes me—

an exceptionally broken thing.