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In Splinters


I exist in splinters.
It’s not necessarily a bad thing.
Sometimes I wonder if other people feel the same.
It would cut them, their life, their decisions, the ability to forgive, and the ability to love, and sew them back together again, changed.
So many questions would be answered.
So many questions unnecessary.

I exist in splinters.
Oh, what do I mean…
There was a girl once I loved, honestly and truly.
I gave a piece of myself to her because I could not imagine a more desirable place for a piece of me to call home.
Why not all of me?
What a terrible burden to place on someone else.

I exist in splinters.
(How many?) A question you may not have asked — 
After that girl, there was another.
I gave her a part of me because I could not imagine a more desirable place for a part of me to call home.
After her, there was another, and another — there have been many.
My splinters are numerous, held by the most wonderful and terrible women in the world.

I exist in splinters.
I don’t regret the giving, though it has often pierced me with terrible pain.
My splinters have crossed the earth, touching all continents, save one.
Perhaps I will fall in love in Antarctica, one day.
Maybe I’ll just hang with the penguins instead.
It might be safer.

I exist in splinters,
broken bits of my heart in each sliver, freely gifted.
They are carried through a world of eye-contact, touch, intimate laughter, stories, love, smiles, tears, hurt, bliss, and beauty.
Though they are carved from me, my heart gets heavier with each piece removed.
I always remember.

I exist in splinters,
willful pieces,
wandering parts… why?
Because it reminds me that I am not empty,
but endless — 
my love, a small sky,
and my splinters, stars.


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