How strange it is
that pieces of things are what we love the most:
wood whittled down to furniture or
metal melted down to jewelry
We compartmentalize life into parts- palpable intangibles
Why is it then that we are constantly seeking out completeness:
happy endings or even just an ending when
passing moments mean more than
we give them credit for

A short exchange can redirect the course of a day and yet
we wait for tomorrow as if there is any control over it
Only after we make peace with our pieces, can we feel whole
A dozen roses is a notion of love instead of
an entire bush
That is to say we pick flowers to
hand over a piece of ourselves
As long as we are giving,
parts of us can be found
around the world

I have given so much to
people that give nothing in return
only take and so
I know I will never be whole
again
Unless, I learn to keep my arms open
instead of handing out my pieces to
unrequited lovers and confidants

My brokenness has allowed me to take new form and
lost pieces leave holes to be filled
with glitter glue and laughter
Each break means I will just
be that much more unique
Not cracked or flawed
Rather parts of me and everyone I meet,
memories and gifts
make me whole