I started with a boundary line.
I found all my edges and started building in.
Every piece felt different.
Another personality come to stay.
And yet they all fit so easily inside my frame,
as if I'd kept this space open for them all along.
So I drank them in.
I flooded myself with their
convexed and concaved sides.
I let them find their place,
no guidance along the way,
and waited to feel whole again.
Then I realized what it felt like
to be assembled by a faulty machine.
To have a piece of myself lost on some dusty floor,
waiting to be swept away.
How am I supposed feel whole,
when I was never that way to begin with?
Who do I blame for my missing pieces?
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
I started with a boundary line.
I found all my edges and started building in.
Every piece felt different.
Another personality come to stay.
And yet they all fit so easily inside my frame,
as if I'd kept this space open for them all along.
So I drank them in.
I flooded myself with their
convexed and concaved sides.
I let them find their place,
no guidance along the way,
and waited to feel whole again.
Then I realized what it felt like
to be assembled by a faulty machine.
To have a piece of myself lost on some dusty floor,
waiting to be swept away.
How am I supposed feel whole,
when I was never that way to begin with?
Who do I blame for my missing pieces?
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