Looking in the mirror, I don't even know who I see anymore; I don't know what I've become.

With each stroke of the ivory, every string tied to my heart is strung. Searching for something to guide the melody back to life. 

With each breathe you take my soul finds hope, but without you, darkness seeps in like the setting sun on a winter night. Gnawing at the corners of my being until I'm reduced to nothing but empty bones.

Where does one look to find themselves?

Can a broken personality be mended by a first aid kit? Or are the cuts of a broken heart far too deep to be held together by a bandaid?

A home is a place to feel safe; a place where a heart feels the warmth of another's touch, like the fireplace after a cold night. A home is you.

One day I hope to wake up and decide, like a bird flying south to stay warm, deciding to become myself again. Waking up and not wondering what happened to me, but knowing, THIS IS ME.

One day.

A sliver of hope reminding me of who I once was. A picture. A smile. A person.

One day.