Flaw Salad

Bits of you are stripped away—by time, circumstance, thoughtless words of others—and with neither effort nor consent, you’re changed. Who you were becomes a shadowy figment lurking at the blurry edges of memory. You held so long, so tightly to that someone, the someone you thought you were, but it melted in your desperate palm. You’re left agape. You wonder at your own transience and how you could possibly remain when everything, everything is gone. Upon whose feet do you stand? Through whose eyes do you see? Under this aching, living, beautiful skin, who cries into the navy night for something, anything, to stay?