I'm not complete, there's a piece missing.
I'm not sure if I lost it or if it was never there to begin with.
Most of the time, I barely even notice. It almost doesn't even exist.
But then, you turn, the light hits it, you see the gap.
And it hurts.
And it gets bigger.
And it speaks.
Volume after volume of insignificant insult, petty and childish.
Your teeth aren't white enough. You're too skinny, I can see your bones. You're not good enough. You're depressed and depressing. Pitiful. Pathetic. It's painful to even look at you. A coward, afraid of your own shadow, what good are you? You can't cook, can't write, can't draw, can't act, can't sing, can't dance, you're charmless, witless, boring, stupid, ugly, unkind, selfish. You deserve to be alone.
And then it's gone again.
And that's what hurts the most.
Because it's not constant, or predictable.
You don't know if it's lying to you or if everyone else is.
And you never find out.
And you remain incomplete, unfinished, with a piece missing.