Was It my fault?!
I did not lose myself; I misplaced it. I have this habit of cutting myself like small paper sheets that I end up leaving to different people I run into—a friend, a lover, or to a mere stranger I just happen to cross eyes with. I know that some hands are not heedful of how they handle a piece of me yet I still offer them a portion of myself hoping that maybe brushing a teensy part of their skin could incinerate some of my dark, empty corners. I have grown particularly attached to those who grip me with such tenderness, securing me that my presence is not just a season of mistake. & when I fully succumb to their soft touches & soothing voices, I let them pause my world; twist, stain, & fold it like a coarse fabric—someone who burns their colds & satiates their thirst. I have nowhere else to go except to creep into their skins, make a cozy home out of the warmth of their bodies, delve my head against their shoulders, eager to be held by their palms, & just so ut...