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 utterly, utterly enamored by them in every way. 

But when the day comes that the universe decides to just tear us apart, I always forget to retrieve the part of me that I had given them; or perhaps I just don't know how to do it. How do I do it? Where do I start gathering those missing pieces until I manage to put everything back to call myself whole again? I know I did not lose myself; I know I misplaced it to every person who once held me, who once showed me love despite the fleeting moment, who I once treated as my own & called them my home. 

I know I did not lose myself; I misplaced it to every person I have ever loved, yet, I'm here lying in my bed, all alone, wondering if it was my fault.