THE COLLECTOR OF A LOST BOY

I am really…

There is something wrong with me.
I cannot love right now—
though I think I could,
I know I cannot.

There is no way.

Because I am broken.

My pieces…
my pieces are beyond shattered,
beaten down,
annihilated.

I can no longer see my pieces.

My pieces
were turned to sand,
and they are not close to me
anymore.

My pieces have blown away.

I am not even a fraction
of the man I once was,
and I do not know how
to get back to my whole.

Or even halfway there.

But,
I need someone’s help.

I need…
My problem needs
recognition.

I need a new heart.

I need someone to give to me
and expect nothing back,
and that is unrealistic.

But,
that is what I need.

I cannot expect this
to ever happen.

But there has to be someone.

There has to be someone
willing
to travel and find those pieces
and sort them out.

There has to be someone
because that is all
that will work.

The collector of a lost boy.

I said I was a man…
I am almost twenty-two years old.

And I am more a boy now
than I have ever been.

So I will take anything back—
any piece.

Anything I can grow from,
I will take back.

But,
my greatest fear
is not death,
and it is not sharing,
but that this will not work,
and I will never be good
or any better
than I am now.

I have no hope.

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