His tiny hands rummaged through the cupboard, full of colors and fun, boxes with different pictures with different gimmicks inside, each one so similar, but all so different. He pulls out a box, the corners frayed, but the picture on top as fresh as the day it was printed. Fingers trace the photo, feeling all the scrapes and scars that cover the surface, hidden from the naked eye. He opens the lid and pours the pieces out at random. Not caring where they end up, or if they get bent. The carpet soft against his hands as he crawls around, investigating the pieces, sorting out reds from blues, blues from greens, and greens from yellows. Diligently he searches and sorts, focuses so intently on the outcome, showing full focus on the pieces, nothing else around matters. With the colors sorted he starts to assemble, edges, corners, middle, each for its own unique placement. Almost done, he admires his work, so perfect is the puzzle that he has assembled. He runs his fingers over the surface, so perfect. When his fingers get near the edge, he removes a piece and pockets it. A remembrance of all the hard work, only he is to see the finished product completed. Carefully he picks up the other pieces and tucks them back into the box for safe keeping. His hand goes into the pocket of his jeans, twirling the puzzle piece over and over again, proud of his accomplishment. Not realizing the harm he has brought. Not understanding how taking that one pieces, is so crucial to the whole. Not realizing that the puzzle can never be complete again. Not understanding the pain he has caused. His hands plunge back into the cupboard.



You were there, when I was broken. There to pick up the pieces and put me back together. That’s what I thought. So piece by piece, you helped me heal. Helped me see the whole picture, but in doing so, you showed me your broken pieces. You couldn’t let me leave unscathed. You couldn’t leave me whole.