I like to think that the hole I can’t seem to fill is because my pieces are scattered amongst the stars
Too precious and beautiful to be reclaimed only by myself.
I like to think that the probability of being whole is zero, like the gravity in which my shards are suspended
Too sharp and broken to form the world I still hope for in the depths of my heart.
I like to think that the danger of gathering my broken parts is greater than the potential they would create
Too jagged and infinite to return to the box I tried to bury them in.
I like to think that the excuses I make to heal my hurt are as salty as the tears I can’t stop from cascading into my open wounds
Too slick and free to be caught in the hands I wish I was brave enough to hold.
I like to think my healing looks like the man I see in the mirror
Too afraid and insecure but still willing to make the change necessary to walk on the moon.
I’d like to think past the trauma
Too far and removed to hurt me the way I’m used to.
I like to think
Too much and often not enough of myself.