The Pieces that Cut my Hands; Bleed me Anemic.

I look around me, and see the pieces of what used to be my identity shattered with jagged edges,  just at my feet. And just how life always is, the clean up much like the destruction itself, is to be done without protective clothing.

You can almost smell the iron from the blood of my being, as the clean up process begins. My soul bleeding out onto the floor beside the pieces of myself.

All that I never wanted became everything I needed, before I gave it half the recognition it deserved. It's gone now but not because I paid it no attention. The reasons are unknown, and my anemic, hollowed soul wishes it back. Regardless its shape or form.

My soul again lacks the oxygen it was finally getting, after so long without.