i like myself in fragments in incomplete sentences my physical self my personal self are only so tolerable in full, they're overwhelming a never-ending novel the metaphors so long weaving through each chapter the meaning gets lost the animosity rises, boils instead i must merely acknowledge the fragments the pieces, the scraps, the leftovers that leave me intrigued with the story begging for more similes the imagery diving along each word content with the pages that are missing
i'm rocking myself to sleep trying to soothe the waves of pain in my body i am my own caretaker like a gardener protecting her plants treating the precious flowers nursing their bright blooms giving them light and love i depend on myself to get me through the day massaging my doubts encouraging my tears into writing writing that will fill my journal pages covering the corners with purple ink it has become so easy to write words bitter words that strike at my being, my confidence so easy that i think i've forgotten how much i truly do care about myself i am my own ally my own friend and i appreciate who i am
i sat on the floor the instruction manual on my lap a small wrench in my hands i knew what i had done wrong but i had no clue how to fix it i sat there fighting the urge to cry as another girl's father sat beside me and fixed it for me used the small wrench that i had tossed to the side not even knowing what it was used for i wonder if he pitied me if he drove home with his wife in the passenger seat and told her how sorry he felt for me how sorry he was that he had to be the one to help me how helpless i must've looked