some people are just old puzzle pieces
that no longer fit in these jigsaw puzzles — my palms.

i run high on its comfort —
i am no longer the dead air between my riddled words —
i am the rust growing in the tips of my steel bed —
such lackadaisical sight,
it is nothing like
cigarettes ashes falling on azalea flowers —
it's of no cinematic appeal.

i am a storm in a state of catharsis;
feel the last bits of softness break away from my skin.
i have outgrown my body
and its desperate need
to mimick the prettiest poems.

i still bleed, and it looks nowhere like sunsets;
i don't have to look like one —
feel like one.
die like one.

i am all these things. i am everything
but the puzzle of who i was —
like a mess of relics, blurring altogether
into one hazy memory.

these fragile bones come together
into something whole
something breathing.
something human.

and i am no longer a puzzle
that breaks at the feel of careless hands.
i run high on this comfort.
i run high on this clarity.