If somebody could fix me, 

I wouldn’t know where to begin.  

The mechanics of my heart 

might be beyond repair, 

and the confusion in my brain  

may have erased any hopes 

of remembering the dreams 

that I wanted to create. 

Glue might hold my body together,  

but what about the sadness       

that lies in my soul? 

What about the regret and anger  

that flow through my very veins, 

or the lack of passion I feel? 

Do I even want to be fixed? 

Am I just a machine that could be repaired 

with all my flaws taken away, 

or is time pulling me apart? 

What if they can’t put me back together again?  

I’m left holding pieces of myself.