small pieces of paper. pictures that I can’t see anymore. ripped out of old magazines.
memories once forgotten are coming into view again.
the corners cut jagged, and I run my fingers along the edges anyways. but I don’t feel them.
and I remember that I’ve tried to put the pieces together myself in ways that make sense to me. but they’ve never quite fit together and the pictures don’t look like I’ve always imagined they would be.
they aren’t beautiful. they are messy. broken. imperfect. and I run my finger along the edges again and decide that I want to feel the parts that hurt — not because I like pain — but because i have to feel before I heal.
and the picture sticks to my fingers and I don’t let go this time.