Puzzle Box

I hold my heart in my hands. A haphazard mixture of hardened stone and delicate flesh, I struggle to wield it while keeping it whole.

There are numerous tears and fissures, but all besides one can be attributed to me. The same hands that try to press the pieces together are the very ones that have torn it apart, an overbearing parent that stifles and harms its child.

Because it sits in my hands, it appears held out to others, but it’s not for them to touch. I guard it fiercely, squeezing my hands together to shield it, pulling it closer to me, strangling it.

I can’t find the glue to put these pieces back together or the hands that can help me hold the puzzle box in place. So I wait, heart cradled away from myself but nearer to nobody else, wondering if the pieces will ever fit back together.