I desperately want to fix people I relate to. I need fixing because I want to fix others.
I find myself mending my pieces together again, pulling a needle and thread through my flesh to make it last longer. I take pieces of myself that have been lost and glue them right back on in the wrong places. Glue only sticks for so long and thread eventually snaps.
I try to hide these stitches I’ve sewn. I’ve spent years covering them with thick layers of glossy paint. I use rich pigments of prussian blue, shiny yellow ochre, deep crimson, and lilac to distract you.
And it works.
Look at what I drowned myself in. Watch me pour the colors over my honest, weathered skin; over my nose and mouth where I breathe and speak. Don't look at me and the path I've detonated. Look at my mask instead.
I’ve been shattered before. With only the delicate touch of another human, I exploded. Sharp splinters of glass burst from within me and flew miles away when it happened. I need to fix myself before I can fix others, otherwise I’ll fix them broken like me.
But how can you expect me to pick up every shattered piece? I would much rather stay broken than collect myself and feel whole. Thanks, though.