I am a piece of glass. My peers are shiny, colourful, clear cut panes that are put together to make dazzling tapestries of light. I am a broken piece of glass. With a shade of black so dull it barely passes as colour.

I'm at the bottom of the bag. With all the other rejects. The artist dips their glove-covered hand in to pick pieces for their masterpiece. Surprisingly, I got picked. Me? Along with the other fractured pieces.

But wait. There's a problem. All the other outsiders fit together perfectly. I don't. I'm the odd one out, the single piece that doesn't fit in. It’s happening again. I don’t fit.

Why? Why? Why can't I fit in? What did I do wrong? I didn't ask to be born like this! I don't deserve this! Was I a war criminal in my past life!? I wasn't? THEN WHY DON'T I FIT IN!? Not even with the outcasts. 

The artist tosses me back in the bag. Unceremoniously. I don't know what hurts more: the rejection or the new cracks from being tossed away like trash. It doesn't matter what hurts more anyways because both now make it even harder to fit in.

I've always been broken. Maybe I was never meant to fit. Every time, the cracks only deepen. Now, I'm more broken.