She stood on the beach with herself in pieces. The well worn, well loved and comfortable parts of herself safe in her hands. The newer, sharper, jagged pieces were making space inside her. In her heart. In her soul. In her mind.
They hurt. They wouldn’t sit right. They rubbed her raw inside until she bled. They cut her fingers when she tried to rearrange them. All those ugly colours staring back at her. So unlike her. She hated looking at them. Looking at herself.
She wanted to tear them out of her. Piece by piece, tearing muscle from bone, and crush them into the ground until they were as dirty and broken as she was.
She so desperately wanted to take her most loved and cherished parts that she now held in her scarred and bruised hands, the parts that felt the most like her, and push them back inside where they fitted and clicked into place.
But these pieces were too soft, too well worn to fit into where they once belonged and where, she thought, they would always stay. They just kept falling to the ground no matter how many times she tried to rearrange them.
It was exhausting. A hopeless endeavour to try and make the past the present.