As pity swallows me up again, this time, I do not fight it. I let it devour me. I feel myself drowning. Again. But I no longer struggle. I lay there. Peacefully. For it was pity for myself. So many reasons existed for why I should feel this way. I am never enough. There was something. Something that says I can never savor the feeling of being whole. There is something, some puzzle piece I am missing. But I feel like I do not want to be completed and at the same time wants to. Like I yearn to be enough but somehow, I’ve gotten used to feeling incomplete.
