I, myself, love many books
I’ve one for every mood.
But lately I cannot put down
The book that’s labeled “you.”

I found this poem. It is not mine, but I fell in love with it.
Written by e.h

I remember when the world broke in,
To rip apart my soul,
For years after that one event,
I thought myself not whole,
My hours were spent with trying,
To fix it up with tape and glue,
Until one day I discovered,
Everyone else was broken too,
Here we were with pieces,
Of ourselves in both our hands,
So fragile and so open,
That I began to understand,
Maybe I’d been greedy,
To want my soul all to myself,
When it could be a lot more helpful,
In the palms of someone else,
Now every time I go somewhere,
I leave part of me behind,
And collect all of the pieces,
Of others’ souls that I can find,
So when I’m meeting someone new,
It’s not just me they get,
But also tiny fragments,
of all the others that I’ve met,
And my life’s become much bigger,
Now that it’s home to things so small,
And if this is what “broken” means,
I do not mind at all.