Pieces of me
are sliced along definite lines.
An exacto knife
used with meticulous care
creates little wedges to let others glimpse
what they need to see
yet
allow me
to hold myself together
long enough to discover
what the whole of me
resembles.

In my precision
of personality division
I have lost a critical sliver of pie.

Peaches without cream,
Abbot without Costello,
Romeo sans Juliet.

Prosciutto thin identity
has left only crumbs of myself
that even a mouse turns away
in search of something more satisfying.

Bits and chunks
fragments and hunks,
accuracy is gone
along with my sense of self.
I am stretched,
a drum without a skin.

I collect and contain
delicate scraps and tainted morsels
discarded haphazardly
wiping the knife on a hip.

Like Humpty who fell
my shell
is cracked.
I don’t have King’s horses or King’s men
to put everything back
again.

Paper Mache is my life line.
Glued sheets and strips
rebuild layer upon layer
of my raw, divided self.
All of the fragments lump together
as a heavy, wet mush.

Dried,
form is given
to a new
unbroken heirloom.
A valued object full of stories
to be passed from
generation to generation.

A hidden treasure beneath all the layers.