I’m No Longer Broken

I pass him every morning
on my way to the bus—
the skeleton with wings,
painted crooked on the bodega wall.
At first, he made me uneasy.
Too bold, too broken,
arms raised like he knew something
I didn’t want to hear.

The words above his head—
I’M NO LONGER BROKEN—
felt like a dare.
Who says that out loud?

But weeks turned into months,
and somehow
I started looking for him.
On gray days
his grin felt like defiance.
On warm mornings
the light hit just right,
like he was lit from the inside.

People tagged around him,
but no one painted over.
Not once.

I don’t believe in miracles,
but I believe in
what you get used to,
what grows on you,
what begins to speak
without ever moving its lips.

These days,
I nod to him—
a small, silent thing.
Not because I understand,
but because I think
he sees me, too.

New York City