Fragments

I hear the echoes.
Like ghosts in their graves.

Here,
and there.

But ghosts don’t stay buried.

They haunt.
They remind.

I am so tired of reminders.

So cruel in their precision.
I used to fight it.
Claw at it.
Dull it.

It was easier that way.

Easier to accept the fragments, then grieve the absence.

But those fragments still cut.

Small, delicate pieces.
Almost beautiful.
Almost convincing.

Like fine grit under your skin.
Soft. Unseen.
Until something breaks.
Until it bleeds.

Still I reach for them.

Sometimes, if I hold them just right,
they fit.

Not perfectly.
Not cleanly.

But enough to resemble.

Even now, with scarred hands,
and nothing whole,
I try to convince myself

these fragments could be more.