I cut my hands on all the broken pieces,
and the blood doesn't stop staining every surface I touch.
I'm so embedded with scars you can't see,
that they pinch my lungs,
making it hard to breathe.
Hard to think.
Hard to function.
It's why I'll never fit it.
Never be able to live without loneliness,
as my closest companion.
Why I'll sit in that corner,
forever,
and wait until the remaining glue chips away.
I'll become a fragment of a memory,
in the minds of the people I thought loved me.
A whisper of dust on the barest of surfaces.
