In the sunlight, nothing seems as broken.

 

She fills the gaps between the shattered pieces,

holds them together

like an ephemeral glue.

Through the glass, all I can see

are the faint 

glowing lines, barely cause for concern.

 

The sunshine paints her brush across my features—

polychromatic strokes,

and I appear bright and bold, 

happy even. 

 

She streaks my aura with radiance 

and makes me light as air,

floating on her rays,

carried by the waves of her music. 

 

In the sunlight, I am rarely alone,

and more rarely does she allow me to feel it. 

She helps me see,

keeps me living,

not just alive. 

 

In the sunlight, for a minute, 

I can almost believe that

I am okay,

that maybe I am better now. 

 

When the sunlight leaves,

and the darkness sets in,

the pieces fall apart,

and it hurts when they break. 

Without the sun and her glue to

hold them together,

they lie there

innumerable: 

me, 

but not me. 

 

The pain, 

like a black hole, 

a force of gravity, 

settles in between my ribs, 

and extends its tendrils to wrap around my 

heart

and to wrap around 

my lungs, 

pulling in every direction, 

shaking. 

 

The darkness is like 

a hued light that

stains 

everything it touches. 

‘Till the sunshine comes back

every morning, 

there will be a 

blackened 

purple

puddle

over those ruined jagged pieces. 

 

And when I try to find inspiration, 

anything to give purpose to the pain,

all that appears

is the evidence of something I

never 

wanted 

to know, 

that I am just a girl telling the same story, 

over 

and over again

with new words each time,

always pretending that I’ve had a breakthrough. 

 

But I’ve never really broken through

because it’s just the sunlight and its

beautiful lies,

broken promises. 

And one day, 

even that

won’t be enough.