The Jigsaw

This body is a jigsaw.
Alone, the pieces stand as mystery novels composed of cardboard and broken parts of two-dimensional artwork.
The smart ones tell me the pieces are better together, that if I look at the picture on the box I will find a way to love myself.
They tell me that it gets better,
That all of this is temporary.
But when it hits,
And you’re there trying not to succumb to the nausea,
You don’t think about how much better it will be tomorrow,
How much fun you will have this next week.
No, when it strikes, all you can think about is the pain in the mirrors.
You can’t escape it.

This body is a jigsaw,
And I’m starting to think the pieces don’t all fit together.
Maybe I’m not trying hard enough,
Maybe I don’t need them all,
But the smart ones tell me I do,
And if I don’t listen to the smart ones
Then maybe things won’t get better,
Maybe none of this will be temporary.

I’m not sure if it is worth the risk,
But I can’t afford to leave everything the same.
Because this body is a jigsaw,
And a puzzle left unsolved
Is just broken art.

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