There were never any clean breaks.
We exploded into ourselves, with fire and brimstone, the shapes we chose serving only to demonstrate our momentum. On summer nights we took to filling deserted parks in the hope of recreating the vintage photographs we'd seen in magazines, always grainy and clouded.

The blocks upon which we were to build were too sturdy. What if we caused them to fall, even when they fit so perfectly together? It's much easier to run from yourself as quickly as possible, in search of a tragedy to dignify your ragged edges.

These coveted personalities we cover ourselves with, this music that is earplugs and clothing that is the gleaming armor we saw on the fictional knights who were men when we were just boys – I still see them in Technicolor when everything else is sepia. Armored and earplugged, our senses are dulled, numb to touch and sound, and in this mottled moonbeam of self we deem each other invincible, free to tiptoe on ledges and writhe naked together in the moonlit grass. When loneliness bellows from the pits of our stomachs – we are not who we say we are, and who will catch us if/when we collapse? – we numb ourselves and nod off to sleep.

The day I was born, they said I was moonfaced. LOOK AT ME. I am a trample-faced reflection, chalky white and wavering. A bastard of a full moon sculpted by porcelain angels who fixed my cracks with bubble gum. There is no such thing as a clean break. There is no such thing as a broken circle. I was covered in scars from the day I was born; you just called them craters. They were hard to see at night, and I hid from you during the day.

So here I am, ragged-edged, ambling, dented barefoot toe prints chasing themselves across my chest like an infinity sign, ribs furrowed, still not dignified or defined, but I think I found my tragedy. And it wasn't anything you did, don't worry. Maybe I'll be able to tell you about it some day. 'Til then you can nest in my shadows and maybe creep into my craters if you're careful. You said we fit like puzzle pieces and congruent angles, but I think you curled up against me like we were two question marks spooning. There is no such thing as a broken circle, you just helped pick up my pieces because they were the same as yours.