Fix you

I have a habit of breaking things
Into bits and pieces
Or maybe just enough
To keep them with myself
A little longer than before.
Now I do it
Because once
There was a man
Who loved breaking things too
Because he believed
Broken things are easier
To hold onto.

I don’t remember tracing those marks
Across his skin
And he doesn’t remember forging these cracks
Across mine.
So every now and then
I dip my pen in his memories
Turn his shirt lying in the desk drawer into paper
And scribble some haphazardous lines
On it
That very much look like my spilled heart
Gushing out of all the parts of my body.

He believed
That
Love was my eyes
Looking in his
With fire-breaths across the floor.

So when you ask me
‘Why can’t I fix you?’
All I can do is stare at the place
A steady two inches right of your face
With the words
Fix you
Fix you
Fix you
Fi..
Trailing my brain
And within I’m a sliding scale
With your words
Slipping my insides down
Into the floor.

So listen,
And please answer me
How long until I hold onto these words
That spill out of my guts everytime
Someone puts a rope around my neck?
How long until someone else held onto me?
Because see
He left me broken
The man,
So all I can do now
Is hope
That I’m somehow easier to hold onto.

But inside,
Inside I’m a slow sliding scale
I feel everything in me slipping down
Into the floor.

I’m staring at the tiny black squares
Of the back porch screen
I stare so hard
I slip through them

So you tell me
That I don’t need fixing
Because broken things
Can be held onto longer.

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