Soft Spots

I am a broken record, but not in the classic definition of the saying. I am not stuck playing on repeat. I am little bits of something beautiful. I was not thrown out, used up, or unloved. I am simply little bits. You can try glue or tape, but nothing really sticks. Nothing ever fixes little tiny bits. I sucked in the air between my cracks and I breathed and I breathed and I breathed in deep. I took up all the air in the universe just to suffocate everything else. I didn't really want to leave everything else with no air. I felt sorry for them. I was filling up my cracks. Within them, a new universe sprouted. New plants and animals and stones grew up within my cracks and wrapped themselves around me. I looked like a record left out in the imagination of a three year old girl. The plants and animals lasted only for a fraction of a second, or for eternity. However long it takes me to close and open my eyes, and who am I to know how long it takes to destroy a universe. The birds created a symphony, a rodeo for the ears of the creatures I never got to name. They were something indescribable, like God, only more powerful. Like the sunset, only more beautiful and like the ocean, only deeper. And then I blinked and all was gone.