Some of my pieces are missing, lost in the pockets of others or hidden beneath another piece. I’m a jigsaw where the final image is unexplainably wrong in the most subtle ways. The colors are too bright for this corner, the center is not meant to be shaped that way. But that’s the way I put myself together, and surely that is good enough, isn’t it?

I can be difficult for people to figure out, since they try to force together something that isn’t me. But it has to be you, they say, because that’s how I see it fitting together. If by some miracle they do complete my true image, they’ll complain what a waste of time it was, what a waste _I_ was, before breaking me down and locking me up for the next person to try to fix.

I don’t want to wait for another person to fix me. I just need someone to make me feel complete, to tell me I’m not a waste of time and space, to make me feel worth something. Is there a chance I can be worth something?

Kindly neglect my former statement; please, someone fix me. Build me up and rip me apart, destroying any remnants of your presence. Call me broken, and then break me worse than before. I will relish in my own misery and disgust, if it means just a moment of feeling whole.

I am never whole for long.

Maybe I’m not meant to be.

After all, I am but a puzzle, made to be severed and wrecked for enjoyment.

Tell me, at the very least, did you enjoy me?