You spent your entire life looking for yourself, and when you finally found her, you put her back on the shelf.
And when I say you spent your entire life looking, I mean I did.
I mean I finally found myself.
I mean I put myself back on the shelf for everyone else, but me.
Hoping that one day, someone would finally just take whatever it is that they were looking for in me, and keep it.
But you cannot leave her.
And when I say you cannot leave her, I mean you cannot leave me.
And when I say you cannot leave me, I mean I cannot leave myself.
See, all of that is to say that I have tried.
I have left fragments of myself in anyone searching for meaning, but only finding me.
But those jagged pieces don’t fit anyone’s puzzle but my own.
So these fragments, these artifacts of stained glass, they always find a way back.
Sculpting me into some delicate art form, to be shown in the back section of a museum.
Used, shattered, chipped, barely salvageable. But alive.
Somehow liveable. Somehow still a place to call home.
So, tell me. How can I keep myself to myself?