I spend most of my time alone.

I take all of the day
going over what makes me, me.
And what has made me, me.

I go over any memory my mind has
experienced, collected and preserved.

I pick them apart,
I try to see what when wrong
when I didn't walk away,
and what could've happened had I said no.

I pick apart the bad memories,
the memories that caused me pain,
and still do today.

I study them.
I cry over them,
I sometimes cut over them.

I rememeber the bad memories more than the good ones.
The bad memories seem to live
just below the surface,
while the good memories
I have to search a whole ocean for.

I question myself on this preservation of pain.
I let it sleep on my shoulders
and darken my eyes.
I let it enjoy me,
enjoy every piece of me.


I spend most of my time alone.

Sometimes I make no sense at all.

But to the memories inside me
that make me me
that controls every part
comes in pieces

pieces of me.