You are always only piece of someone else’s puzzle
And often, not the largest, at that…
You met this puzzle half-complete
And you’re never certain, til it’s done
Whether all the pieces are even there
Or maybe some got misplaced along the way…
So why are you still trying to build this thing
With no picture on the box?
Why do you insist on banging in these pieces that barely fit?
Why do you have so much stubborn faith
That there is an answer
When you don’t even know the question?
Why do you fill these loose spaces
With dispersed fragments of your own identity?
Why do you think you have enough of yourself to spare —
Your own pieces of this senseless puzzle,
Why do you expect that this thing lacking pieces
Will have enough to spare to complete you?
Why do you believe, so fervently,
That you know what
The picture on the box is supposed to be?
So why, baby girl, tell me, tell me why…
Why are you still trying to build this thing
With no guarantee that there is something there to be built…
