You Don't Know the Half of It

You don’t know the half of it.

You don’t know me.

I am the broken half of someone beautiful.

I am the half that was cast away to be swept up on an unknown shore.

The wet shining sand that you so casually sink your toes into, that’s me.

Forever will I be tossed from shore to shore, bit by bit, grain by grain.

I’ll drift through the oceans and cling to your skin like dust.

I am everywhere, physically and mentally.

My mind flips from end to end, cartwheeling through streets, homes, rooms and sheets.

I will never be whole again.

You will carry bits of me to every end of the earth.

You, your family, your friends and your lovers.

You will all drag me even farther from myself until the lack of my concentrated self completely

dissipates me.

I’ll be the sweater in the back of your closet.

The one that had too many loose strings.

The strings that everyone else pulled at, loosening them even more.

The strings that were stretched in every direction at different times only to unravel me completely.

Why bother wearing a sweater that’s coming apart at the seams?

What purpose could it possibly serve?

And one day, I will unravel completely.

Then what use will I serve?