i started picking up the parts of me that have been broken.
i looked around at each place I'd been to,
on each corner where I probably lost it.
i found some under the table of the restaurant we used to love,
on the tiny pocket of your worn out stripped shirt.
some pieces made my fingertips bleed again,
but it's not as painful as it used to be.
and i know it will take me so much time to pick it all up.
but don't help me collect more.
don't break me once more─i don't want this jar to overflow.
// lone collector.
YOU ARE READING
Solitude Hour
Poetryi have been locking up all of my thoughts and shutting down voices inside my head. i am terrified to see how messed up it is and to hear what a horrifying sound it would be. but sometimes, when i am alone, i let them be wild and free. and then i wil...
