I can’t survive up on the shelf, away from the dirtied realities of the world. I’m not a doll or prized figurine. I’m not crafted to precise factory perfection; we’re all flawed and less than whole. Take me down from here, peel back your layers and I promise to do the same. Look me in the eye and dare to tell me that my insides are any less mangled than yours.
Why build the wall between your bloodied history and mine, citing the wars you’ve lost as a reason for why we couldn’t possibly march side by side? We’re all weak and flawed. We all have our complications, our baggage, our pasts. No one is too good for another. Let’s take our battered and bruised souls, and see if they can’t be made a little more whole.