Oh look, Oh look, I broke.

I am terrified of falling apart. Breaking into pieces. Not having the solid body solid soul underneath me, that foundation to support me...
The irony is I fell apart years ago and have only been holding the pieces in place to pretend I'm okay. Duct tape failed me, as did super glue and thumbtacks. I'm not a puzzle because my pieces don't fit together properly. I'm not even Mom's favourite broken vase that's been placed in a baggie to be "fixed" later. Though you can't fix broken memories.

No. I'm a handful of crooked thoughts, mixed in with several odd socks and lost earrings, thrown in with the aiglet you lost in second grade. Pieces that don't have edges to match up, but they make up a whole, a whole mess, and it's fine. It's all peachy.

I break things. Mom's vase. My sister's art project. Hearts. I break a lot of hearts. My own, mostly. I build up empty promises in my head and I let myself get too into someone and Heart 2.0 dies within weeks, whereas Heart 3.2 shatters instantly. It's not horrible, breaking things. For the most part it doesn't get worse than breaking it, and then you can only put it back together or buy a replacement. Breaking things, falling apart, it's really not the worst part.

The worst part is being whole again and realizing how very scarred you are.