I’ve been piecing myself out over all of these years.
A pinch here. A dash there.
Scattered into the environment
Like blood gifts, unwanted but received.
You all hold them in your pockets,
Clamoring to view their distorted image, projected into the folds of your minds, taking on new life of their own.
But the thing about a torn up photograph;
A puzzle with missing pieces:
You must use your own invention to make it whole.
But how can you solve a crime without all of the crucial evidence?
What do you do when the pieces that you’ve kept for yourself no longer make sense?
I keep them locked in a box. Chained.
Somehow I threw away the key along the way; I exist, tattered and abused like a once loved book now growing dusty in a bin. And maybe, there’s no real hope in ever knowing; reconnecting-
The pieces held in pockets.