Bits and pieces

I find it so hard to say
Anything
Everything
In one place.
Every one of my voices demands it’s own place.
Together they’re just
Noise.
Yet apart they’re just
Fragments.
Mismatched
And Ill fitting.

It’s as if there’s this compulsion to either fit them together
Or sort them apart.
A desperation for order
Or control.

The uncontrollable.
The unsortable.

There’s a fantasy that disarray is pretty
And enchanting.

It’s not.

It’s a head full of shapes
And only square holes.

I don’t know who
Or what
You want me to be.

I don’t know who
Or what
I actually am.

It’s all just pieces.

And bits.

Mostly bits.

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