These moments change me, every time I come up against them.

I have always been full of violence and fight. Trained or not, it’s what came out. Mixed up little pieces all locked up in a weathered, rusted-out box. My outsides might be occasionally attractive, but my insides are a wreck.

I get by by breaking things.
I wonder how good of a strategy that is.
If nothing else, it calms me.
I’ve learned how to pick up the pieces, regardless.
Taught myself how to glue temporary things back together.
And skin just heals itself, I find.

It’s immediately obvious, isn’t it?
Everybody says this.
Nobody has, significantly, tried to change that.
I’m beginning to assume it’s because I’m actually doing okay.

Which makes me wonder if I shouldn’t just own all of this and be done with it. Honesty, in my experience, has proven itself to be the best possible strategy. I’ve never been one for lies. I prefer delusions.

I think I can be delusional about how well this will work, too.
So, here we go.

I’m breaking up, scattering like static darting through the fibers of your blanket over your feet at night. You might hear me, feel me if the light’s on. You can see me if it’s dark. Otherwise, I’m hardly there at all. Just a spark, a flash, a second and I’m gone.

Don’t feel sorry for me if you happen to notice.
I’m not crying out for help or attention.
I’m just trying to manage, to get by.
I think I could start to believe I’m doing just fine.

This worked in the past.
It can work again.

In a year or so, I’ll gauge how well my hindsight is working.
Yet again.


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