Our bodies are puzzles.
Your pieces are sewn together with delicate thread, but someone forgot to tie the ending and now you're unraveling. Every second a new piece clatters to the floor, with every poke from a bong or every lyric of a song.
I am a puzzle glued together strong. No one can break me, only myself. At night when others sleep, I lay in bed and weep. The tears turn to blood that melts the glue and my puzzle is collapsing, under the weight of itself.

But in the blackness when we are awake, I try my best, for your sake, to sew yours back together. And when the thread turns to snakes and bites at my fingertips, I take a step back. Look at my voids and emotions that I lack. And I sweep my puzzle pieces off of the floor and assemble them into yours. Our puzzles combine, into one broken mess. But you're vision is focused on one single thread, not the shaking hands that are held or the hearts that cannot meld.

Our bodies are puzzles, crumbling to bits.