“I am a mosaic of everything I’ve ever loved” or rather I am a piece of the mosaic that everybody loved. The small crooked and triangular shard of what once was loved.

But how come im only a part of a mosaic? And can’t be my own image. How come I have to depend on others in order to be complete and perfect.

Oh why do I have to be perfect? Is it the feeling that I have to or is it cause I want to? Either way its not possible, cause as they say no one will ever be perfect— they will always be close to perfect but not perfect. Just as the glue overflows yet i still stick, the overflowing uncontrollable emotions— I have to **** up because no ones wants extra glue.

No one wants to get sticky fingers. So I stay silent—staying as a shard that i am, drying hardening and dying.