It’s funny to think of yourself in pieces

When the shatter has since become a distant memory

When you catch yourself in the middle of analyzing people’s shards

When you yourself aren’t even whole

 

It’s amusing to stop and see

The pieces that are still mingling within you

Ones you thought disappeared long ago

Still lying embedded in your heart

 

It’s easy to think that you have since found someone

Who hugged you until your pieces all came back together

And that you no longer need to think about the cracks thinner than a hair

Seams that slowly run along the entity that is yourself

 

But that’s the truth of broken pieces

They resist the more you try to push them away

And the more you shatter and fragment them, until they’re merely fine dust

The easier it is for them to stay

 

So as you wonder, to yourself

What to do with your broken parts

And you analyze the cracks within others, because you can see their pieces

In vain because you don’t even know how to put together your own

 

And that’s why the thrashing happens

The smashing, the breaking, the deconstruction

Until the pieces are now just fine dust

That you could never hope to put back together

 

And instead you take that dust

That you have now breathed in from the air

Mix it in with the clay and sand

With which you now work

Molding its shapeless particles and grains until something anew rises

From the ashes and dust

Something new

That is whole