Oblivious, I was all limbs and no joints. I couldn't move without the motivation of your love.
I had set down a circle around me and walls on its circumference. I was statuesque. I was shrill.

The floor was concrete with cracks, lacerations drawn like surgeons' cuts; they bore into my mind.
Images of splitting apart split my heart and I was claustrophobic in this dark cylinder. The sobbing echoed back constantly, after I had stopped my tears.

Hope hid itself in an imagined corner.

I shouted your name in all directions, but none gave an answer, and I remained alone.
The solitude-thickened air was like breathing baked bricks, one by one; hard to swallow.
My pose remained unchanged as there was no flexing room.
Patience was my only friend.

My muscles ached and atrophied.

All the exercise I could do was think. I worked my brain into confusion until I slipped from the illusion
and found the horror of reality once more.

Books were written in my mind's pages over the years, each read aloud a thousand times, to keep from forgetting even one line. My voice was the only thing I heard for centuries of sadness.
It was a maddening tone, harsh and masculine, like broken bones.

But I one day ran out of things to say, and decided I would do instead.
I leaned my forehead forward, half an inch and hit the wall ahead.
I broke my arms, rattling, shaking, and scraping against the grainy darkness,
lost my feet, trying to jump and scream, blood running down in streams.

Puncture wounds began to glisten as light gleamed its way through nothing.

I kept at it. Concussions barraged as I sent my torrent to the wall without fear.
Broken, I leapt out, through the window I would die for, only to see your frozen body,
lying in pieces, from your attempts to come back.

I fell next to you, completely selfless, no name to call me, no face to remind anyone.

I had found love again, and found it too strong to take.
(Identity is partly who people think you are.)

Incomplete and unknown.

(It began with a broken heart.)