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Puzzle Pieces.

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I hate writing about the same thing over and over— the failed attempts at portraying what is truly me. But, they’re all me. I don’t quite know how to change it up.

I hate my writing when it’s about me, usually. It’s just annoying and the sentences are choppy and it just doesn’t paint a pretty picture.

But then when I write about you or them, her and him, the words come easy and natural. It flows and it actually sounds okay. I see parts of me in those writings. I just want to be able to take each piece and put it all together, like a puzzle, on the same sheet of paper, but ti doesn’t seem like I can.

I try and I try and I try. It just doesn’t happen— pieces don’t fit. I bribe, persuade, and fight these parts and pieces, to get them together and maybe, just maybe, get an idea of me with all the pieces there.

I just want them there coherently and nicely— just once. It doesn’t really work. I guess I’ll just be writing out the pieces to the unsolvable puzzle that is me for the rest of my life



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