To mend the broken.

When the body is sick, 

you take medicine. 

But in reality, 

any medicine that you could give me would only put

a stopper on all of the emotions that I pretend to not feel.

There are so many times that I wish that I could go to any doctor 

so that I looked fine. 

So that you would never know my longing. 

So that the happiness that I could pretend to feel 

could shine through and I would look like missing you 

would be that last thought in my mind. 

Meanwhile, I know it's there all the time. 

IIt's clear that you've found someone else to long for,

I hope that you never have to miss anything. 

Most people find it adjacent to impossible

to wish a loved someone well with someone else 

while you stand in your skin, lone as a wolf. 

Wounded, I sprain and strain myself in an attempt to 

smile and laugh without it sounding artificial.

Maybe I make too serious a deal of myself, 

maybe I'm having trouble tracking my time. 

I look at days as weeks, 

and then I wonder why the time grew wings. 

And I'm sure that you're just fine.

Your hours are spent with someone that 

matters most to you, 

more than I ever would. 

It's easy to mend a broken bone because

you truly learn to live without it. 

Though it's temporary, the bone is never truly the same 

once it relapses back into place. 

But, as you've healed, I have to be alone to mend myself. 

Crushed on the ground, I wonder how you are.

I wonder how she is. 

It's easy to see that she's gorgeous in and out, 

while it's apparent that I am not. 

The scars inside that I cover,

I don't want to imagine how you'd look at me then.

They fade to a dull pink, but they will never leave. 

You did. 

I know that I was never the best.

But I was who I was and every once in the blackest moon, 

I'll look back and I'll wonder if you ever look at me the way I once looked at you.

In the times that I wasn't looking, I ponder the proabilty that I wasn't as hideous

as I made myself look. 

I was a very different person when I tried to be what you wanted. 

I used to like to think that I was pretty on the inside, 

and that it just took a certain person to look behind all of my masks

to see who I really was inside. 

Maybe it wasn't you, 

or maybe I should've just stopped trying so hard. 

My earnest intentions never made me look half as

humbled and hollowed out as I really was. 

After you, I'm ill with the boredom of neutrality of being so broken up.

I long to reach the time when I am immune to your attention or your affection. 

When I no longer wish to keep your gaze. 

That time is not now, and because it is not, I constantly wonder if it will come at all. 

In a world of such independence, it's a puzzling thing that I can't heal myself. 

Starfish can regenerate their limbs, cats can lick at their wounds,

and they survive unscathed. 

I look at myself behind the ribs, and I think of how much I've shut out. 

Perhaps to repair, I merely need to allow something in. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace.