Shattered Reflections

A doll is purest before it's claimed,
untouched porcelain, waiting in silence,
no
      name,
no
      story
stitched into its form,
only the weight of what will come.

As a child, I broke so many,
Watched them fall into a million pieces,
S
   c
       a
              t
              t
       e
   r
e
d
fragments on the cold floor,
While my mother, with careful hands,
Glued them back, piece by piece,
Reassembling a wholeness that seemed so simple then.

Now, I stand before the mirror,
But the cracks in me run deeper than they ever could in glass,
My skin bears the weight of a thousand voices,
Each word reshaping, each touch leaving its mark.

Who am I?
Every time I was told who I should be,
A piece of me chipped away,
Lost to the voices that spoke louder than my own,
Until there were no unbroken fragments left,
No part of me untouched, unexposed.

I reach for what remains,
But my hands grasp only emptiness,
A patchwork of borrowed shapes and borrowed names,
The mirror splinters, and my face dissolves,
Shattered reflections that can’t be pieced together.

Is it me who is fading, or is it the world that has taken too much?
I clutch at the emptiness, seeking a self I cannot find,
For I am scattered, a mosaic of the words of others,
A doll rebuilt too many times; its true form long forgotten.