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Viewing myself as broken pieces shattered on the ground
This past year I have had to pick each piece
And glue it back together.
Painfully picking up each piece with bloody hands
And individually lathering it with a substance
Stronger than super-glue:
Which piece fits where?
I try to bind my current state
To my childhood
Without focusing on the torture from adolescence.
But like the wrong puzzle pieces
They do not fit.
The more I wait
The bloodier the pieces become
And harder to tell
So I must work quickly
Before I cannot remember myself any longer.
I feel pain from my bloody finger-tips
Cut from the act of prodding parts of myself.
I am being threatened
By the darkness
To not do this.
LIVE IN DENIAL
AREN'T YOU ASHAMED OF WHO YOU ARE?
Am I? Maybe now.
But once I build myself... once again
I will be strong and
Able to take steps towards light.
My arms ache from the weight of the act
But from this my biceps spawn
Laying their eggs through cells
And ripping as they get firmer.
I take a step back now and view my masterpiece
Not a work of art but
A piece of a mast.
It is not complete
But getting bigger
Taking the form of something that is not entirely alive
(Most of this was written several weeks ago. Strange how perspective and mentality are so fickle.)