I am in pieces.
There is a piece of me over there
Under that tree
In that bush.
I was a grenade and I exploded.
When I did fragments of my soul and secrets went everywhere.
I don’t know who I told what.
There are pieces of me that I don’t want shared
And there are pieces of me that I do not care about.
There are pieces of you.
Your pieces are more put together than my
Pile of me.
Yours are all neatly organized, placed into neat little drawers that you open from time to time
You select what you want shared and you don’t forget who you gave what.
We are so different, you and me.
I am an open book, my pieces found anywhere
And you are selective.
There is a piece of me that I guard.
And its getting hard
To hold this piece with my hands, watch as people pick apart all the other ones, but only I know this one.
I want to rush out to my other pieces defense,
But instead, I say nothing.
And you come along, with your little drawers
And one by one you pick them up.
You organize them. Put them in near packages like a family does when moving.
You put me in organized places, and when you reach the piece of me I haven’t shared
I give it. I give it because you
The most guarded person I know
Will guard the pieces of me
With everything you have got.
And when you have given up,
The grenade that I have become
Waiting for the next organizer to help me