Sticks and stones

Each day I get hit with sticks and stones, but no broken bones. But that makes you see me differently. Like those broken bones that make so many souls break, are good. And just because mine don't break I'm a freak. But little do they know, I broke, I shattered. And then when I healed, I picked up the broken pieces, one by one, made a bridge, And now I see your beautiful face staring back. Hearing your voice that would shout into my personal Hell and make sure I heard it, in person. Each and every night I stood with a bottle of pills emptied into my hands, When the drugs never worked, When therapy had me scared like a child scared of the monster under their bed, You were there. Holding my hand and my heart. Despite it being broken, you held it with love and care. And you would never stare. Just hold me until I slept again.