Broken

Making do.

I got good at it. Taking pieces from here to fit in holes over there. It was payment banked on promises of a brighter life. And when you smiled and told me how good it would be, I gave you more.

But they were pieces of me. I used them because of those promises. Empty promises to fill in my empty places. And when you were around, you held out your hand and took the pieces I gave.

Now there are more hands. Beautiful little hands that need my pieces. Pieces that are not there. Pieces that litter the path that ends at my feet.

And I watch with a curdling soul as the beautiful little hands fill with beautiful little pieces. Beautiful little voices fill me up with promises of a brighter life. I take the promises but leave the pieces. They are not mine.

And here you come with a smile, hands out. Wrapped up in your empty promises. I look behind at the pieces of me spread in the dirt as far as my eyes can see. While I pull away, you tell me how glorious the path is.

I take the first step onto the bare ground. Taking little hands that fit perfectly in mine, I lead the way. You see, I don't want a path. I want a life.

And I want my pieces back.