The Pieces of Me

"What is your favorite thing in the whole wide world?"

I cannot answer that in short

For I have not yet explored nor met what the whole wide world has to offer

I have only been privy to bits and pieces of her and can only remark upon those which have brought me the fondest of keepsakes and memories

Because I am not even able to tell you my favorite thing about my own self

For I, too, have only gotten to explore and meet myself in bits and pieces

And some of the bits have left me in pieces

And some of the pieces do not always fit

And I feel out of place, like parts of me belong to someone else

Like I am not wholly me

Maybe, perhaps, that is for good reason, though

Maybe, not all of the pieces are supposed to fit

Perhaps, because not all of the pieces are mine

I have tried, in vain, to shove and mold into myself the pieces they told me would solve the puzzle

But the pieces always feel wrong

And, though, I do whatever I can to swallow that feeling

The pieces scratch and pierce and aggravate my soul, rendering it raw

And I cannot keep hidden the agony they lend me

The urge to have even a small sense of control of my own being always escapes me

Making a mess of the pieces they infected me with

I have still tried to learn how to love those versions of myself

To love all the pieces, to no avail

So, you see, I cannot answer simply nor with certainty what my favorite thing is in the whole wide world

For I have only gotten to know and love her in narrow bits and pieces

And within those pieces, I can only speak upon the bits that are the most beautiful to me

For I have only gotten to know and love my own self in just bits and pieces