Inadequate.

Kind of poetry, more just jumbled up thoughts.
Inadequate.
We are inadequate. For anything we try to do on our own we will come up short. That's the beauty of it. God knows that we will be terribly, completely, beautifully, inadequate. I am broken. I am far from perfect.

I'm a little worn at the edges with cracks and smudges,
each a sign of the battles I've fought.
my heart, delicate though it may be, works to repair
without ugly scars holding it back.
I can't fix it.
I turn with tears, asking who can fix it? Who can return it to its original state
of
beat beat beating?
The hard bits of callous on the outside of the hardworking, hard-loving muscle can't stay.
the imperfect heart.
He wants it.
He WANTS it.
scars.
broken pieces.
cracks.
smudges.
messiness.
life.
and he's already made it breathtakingly beautiful, without my help.
I can't do it myself.