We expect people to fix us like all we have are broken knobs and missing springs of standard size

We lean into the palm of their hands like somehow they could hold us together, keep our insides from spilling out of disjointed limbs

We expect them to know us from back to front,

every edge every curve every contour pressed in permanent memory,

so that if ever they traced a finger down each ridge of our spines, the knots deep in our chests would unravel all at once

But there is no superglue to mend the hairline cracks blooming inside out,

and no fingers tender enough to heal old bruises of past years

When the missing parts of our entity are hard to place and the empty gaps too large to fill,

there's nothing they can do even if they took you apart layer by layer and piece by piece

We expect people to save us, when really,

there is no saving the shadow of a ghost.

21.04.14