Pieces

I fall apart and every small bit that makes me is from someone else.

My mother’s recipes, my father’s shoulders. My sister’s music taste. My friends’ recommendations.

My mother’s way of smiling cause mine was wrong, my father’s detachment, my exes bruising, my ex friend’s lies.

Nothing is mine not truly, just internalised pieces of what others think of me. Truth is most days I don’t know who I am.

What makes me, well…me.

Maybe we are just all made out of pieces of what we have seen and been taught. Mosaics catching the light in many colors while others sit undiscovered in someone’s basement. Then there is me.

Discarded like an ugly try out piece that did not come quite right and sits in landfill covered by soil and moss, stepped on and broken into shard a million times. Someone might see a piece, a glance of what could have been and say “what a shame, is kind of pretty” because it does look it.

Then one day the pieces are rescued, glued back together and once the picture is full they realise this is garbage and discard it again. The cycle repeats and the shards are ever so slighly smaller every time, until there is more glue than glass. Until is impossible to see the pattern.

But no one sees the problem, if you take the pieces, clean the old glue away and sit with them for a minute, seeing what they could become you might get some use of them, is not about restoring the old piece back to former glory, often times this crafted items are beyond repair, but that does not mean beyond use. A shard could go into being a statement piece, another could fit perfectly in a new mosaic, you can add new shards to make a better one, or you can simply let them shine on the windowsill, the light hitting them in diferent angles, disconected until the back wall shows you its true colors.

But no one has time for that, am I right?