Call It a Poem, I guess.

A few years ago she exploded.

And found shards of herself scattered in places she used to know and even masses upon people...

Staring at some in fascinating dismay, a piece so disfigured it took a moment to recognize it.

Some pieces were studied so closely she was amazed that it was even once a part of her, as it was so foreign in the present.

Other pieces she tried to insert back into the web of holes inside, to no avail.

She took other people's abandoned parts, they fit better than her own.

She was a kaleidoscope of human shrapnel, the people who were also torn; stitching their way into her new person.

And then, she exited the cellar of her mind.

Past the den, where the library of memories sits, some books scattered on the desk; still opened.

She walked past the kitchen, where she created and consumed.

She left the house entirely, and began a conversation with the person next to her.

Collecting more pieces as she goes.