Broken

I feel,
in the deepest parts of my being,
incorrect.
Something about me,
Something unseen,
Is wrong.
It plagues me,
Feeds my insecurity,
And causes grief where there should be pride.
I am a clearance item,
Left on a shelf for purchase by those looking to save a penny
By skimping on quality.
Look at me and see:
my cracks,
my holes,
my missing pieces.
I beg you,
Don’t throw me away.
I am not ready
To fully submit
to the darkness.
Look at me and see
that I am good enough,
So that I may look past
My imperfections
Because someone else
Still wanted me
Despite them.