and now you're nothing but the sound i wear around my neck
a trinket a bauble a cheap piece of costume jewelry
that i somehow can't bear to throw away
like a music box with broken tines
that winds and winds and winds
and plays all the wrong notes
you're the puzzle that's been sitting on my coffee table for three whole months
waiting for the last piece to fit into place
the last piece i've never found
it's an ugly open wound like what you've done to me
and to yourself
500 pieces to a masterpiece
499 to tragedy
i'm a packrat -- hoarding all the little hurts and the lies and the shiny pieces of happiness you throw me
that tarnish and crumble into dust the next day
my attic-heart is getting full, the worn chests full to the brim
with the almost-good-enough and the not-so-bad things you've said
and i take the fullness to mean i'm happy
i guess even i lie to me