I don't know if this has ever happened to you, the defining moment in your life when everything that is you, is broken. You are shattered, not yourself anymore because you don't even know WHO you are. And then there's no one there to pick up the pieces of yourself, no one to help. At first they seemingly don't care, but it's because you don't let them see. In the end, you realize you never wanted them to see. It's a deep dark cistern of pain that must be hidden and kept secret at all cost. For if it was let loose, placed carefully on a surface to be examined, with blinding lights above so no details are lost, well the examiner would run screaming. And then comes the day when you look around, after an unknown period of time of a life of nothing, and you see yourself. Then you pick up the pieces. Alone. And they are hastily put back together. Whoever said duck tape holds the world together was fucking wrong because eventually it's going to fall apart and fail. You know it's inevitable, the day you brake again, but you just hope and pray that it's a long time off. You treat your broken pieces like a puzzle, knowing that the picture won't turn out quite right if it's put together wrong. But you just don't CARE. You cram and smash those pieces so they stick but aren't right. YOU aren't right. You are different, something's off, but no one can lay a finger on what exactly it is. Every once in a while you see a crack, threatening to enlarge and overtake. But you try to quickly fix it, leaving it a little better, but at the same time worse. Even now you don't want help. It must be kept secret. It fears of being out in the open. It vastly prefers to reside in your battered body, mind, and soul. Always there to remind you. You put up a façade, an illusion of yourself, but in reality, you KNOW. You are dead inside, a walking husk of what you once were.
