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.