I am but a puzzle That no one will ever solve I am but a puzzle Where a few pieces ,will always be gone Like a cold case murder, 20 years old Laying on the detective’s desk Buried beneath all the rubble, hope & love I am but a puzzle, wait ? Maybe I’m the one Who has been missing all along? Maybe I’m just a ghost , now visiting… The final piece of this puzzle! But ,if I’m dead ,will it ever be solved?

I am a puzzle, my pieces scattered across time and space. Some are so distant they seem to reside among the constellations. One of these elusive fragments finds its way into Orion, returning to form with me at sunrise, only to vanish again by afternoon, leaving me searching for myself once more.

Still whole, I remain a work in progress, with many pieces left to discover and countless constellations still to trace in the night sky. I know they exist in the shadows between the stars—those spaces are only revealed when you stop desperately seeking them. It's like misplacing a set of car keys; you can spend an hour searching, only to find they were sitting in plain sight all along. Yet, I continue to search. I strive to outline my edges, seeking the pieces hidden within my memories—the particles of this life and the lives before, maybe even those yet to unfold. With outstretched hands, I trace the constellations where I sense my lost selves lie in hiding, each representing a version of me I no longer recognize but long to reconnect with. In Draco, the dragon constellation, I believe my creativity may be concealed. Over there in Boötes, I spy a frozen little girl, and I wonder if that could be me. And look, in Pegasus, isn’t that my imagination? Is that where my dreams escape when I can’t seem to recall them? My pieces have slipped away into eternity, and I am but a fragment—a sliver of light, a spark of a star, woven into the vast expanse of the cosmos.

In tarot, The Lovers card reveals two reflections of the same self. This duality, this interplay of light and shadow, whispers to our inner puzzles. We should cherish each piece and fragment as a lover honors their beloved. We are not a singular, complete being; instead, we are an infinite collection of scattered pieces, constantly evolving. We are a tapestry woven from stardust, ever in a state of becoming.

What is the definition of love? Is it love when you've touched their nude body, or is it love when none of that occurred and you pray for them and take into account their feelings, even if it means they've harmed you? Is love still as strong as fire in spite of pain…Will that person's love sustain for an extended period..

I am but a puzzle although my pieces do not fit as they should. I am but a puzzle, not yet understood. My edges are frayed, parts of me bent out of shape.Years of pushing my self to stay where I’m placed.

I am but a puzzle, nothing simple, a challenge or A riddle that leaves you perplexed. A complex mix of many things, leaving you scratching your head.

I am but a puzzle. That’s still not been solved Left to twist myself more and more until I fit in the mould. Pieces of a puzzle which are missing from the box, incompletely unsolvable a mystery to most. I am but a puzzle…

Please daddy shit in my mouth Please daddy beat my on the couch Please choke me and kill me til I pass out I’ll be your slut you’ll have no doubt I suck yo balls til u cum and shout

“I have this theory,” my date said, “that you can tell a lot about who a person is as an adult just by hearing childhood anecdotes about them.”

“Okay,” I said, digging through my brain for a few anecdotes that I could safely reveal. “I, myself, am but a puzzle, so let me tell you a few.”

—-

The Clouds

My earliest memory is of my father holding me as he was taking me out of the car. I remember looking up at the sky and saying “What are those white things in the sky?” and my dad, looking at me fondly, replying “those are clouds!”

The Digger

I remember playing in a sandbox at preschool with a toy digger. It was a new toy, and I had waited what seemed to my young mind to be a long time in order to have a chance to play with it. It must have been approaching the end of the day, so there were parents about picking their kids up.

One of the dads said “you can’t play with that. It’s a boy’s toy!” to me. I had never heard of anything that crazy in my entire (probably 3 or 4 year-old) life. I told him that was stupid and that any of the kids can play with any of the toys. It was my earliest experience with sexism.

The Achiever

I remember the books in my grade one classroom were colour-coded according to reading level. I remember purposely picking books that were one level above the level I had been instructed to choose from. The teachers let me.

I also remember reading the book out loud to my teacher, and laughing with her, even though I didn’t understand the subject matter.

The Dreamer

When I was 6, I spent an entire cross-country plane trip looking out the windows of airplanes trying to see the Carebears. I was convinced that they were real.

When I didn’t see them, I told my mom that they must have been on the other side of the plane or, perhaps, away from home as they were busy teaching people how to care.

When we landed, I convinced my younger brother to stage a fight with me to try to coax them into appearing to teach us about caring.

The Loyalist

My held onto my first boy-band crush for way longer than I should have. I thought that if you really loved someone you wouldn’t abandon them simply because everyone else in the crowd moved on.

I took quite a hit socially for not letting go too.

—-

“Ah,” my date said, taking a sip of his Pinot Grigio. Had I picked the right anecdotes?

“What do you think?” I said, fidgeting with my utensils.

“You might have your head in the clouds a bit, and a bit of a feministic streak, but you also clearly have a good heart.”

I take a sip of my White Zinfandel, pleased with his analysis, but also thinking of the anecdotes I had passed on telling him. “I’ve always thought you can tell a lot by a person’s wine selection myself.”

We traveled to the Grand Canyon last summer. I didn’t know what I would find there, but it seemed like something was waiting for me. Charlie was being her usual self, smelling like her usual self.

Mom told us to load up on a Thursday morning. I had mixed feelings. I didn’t know that you had written all of those stories! It kind of made me feel like I needed my journal to measure up, but I also knew that you would accept anything.

When I saw that first bird, I knew it was you. OK… I didn’t know, know. But I figured it out. I solved the mystery, Dad.

I am but a puzzle Broken apart before the lid was lifted By unknowing hands For years the wrong parts Forced unto each other Jammed into ideas of the image on the box

Always undone or forcibly bent The empty gaps lost beneath the table

Desperately destroyed And redone And destroyed once again The ticking of the clock begins to fade And the hands are older Fingers maybe stronger But it is not wasted on what does not fit There are parts of it now That make sense when I see them The rest just to the side It’s not done and might never be finished But everything Takes time.

(This is something I wrote when I was twelve. I wanna see if u guys can guess what it’s about. Yes, it is a rather taboo topic, but the writing was pretty good for the age level, so I thought I’d share)

Why does the bee buz? Why does the bee get angry at strangers coming closer into contact? For I ask, Great Nation, what, so called Great Nation are we if we are like the bee?—getting angry at strangers who mean no harm, when they just want to escape harm, themselves.

For there are greater dangers than them. And so I say, Great Nation, we stand by the rule “Liberty and justice for all.” Well, what does that mean to the multitude of good people who were sent back to their dangerous home?

For our nation believes that none should suffer or die, yet that is all that people have been doing. They would have a better life (for isn’t that what this Great Nation’s for?) if our so called Great Nation truly believed in freedom.

Some say that freedom is earned, not given, but a Great Someone has already given it. He has given it all, ever since He sacrificed His life on a mountain where people persecuted Him and hated Him, but in the midst of all that hate, there was GREAT love.

For I am only twelve, but this I ask, Great Nation: what great nation are we?

Every being has things That it likes That is needs That it hates

Just finding these things out Can bring you closer To figuring out the Puzzle of Humanity

“Why does one act this way?” You only need to dig To find the peices That they have hidden below the surface

Some are larger puzzles Than others But it all comes down to Puzzle Master

“Why does one have so many layers?” Why do humans have to be So So worrisome

Stupid Cruel Power-hungry Ignorant

Smart Kind Pure-Hearted Innocent

“Why can’t we be just one click?” Why not just one peice To find out the difference between Good and Evil men?

My brain throbs It hurts To many puzzles To many lies

Why can’t it be easy? Why can’t it just make sense? Oh! Why?! The Puzzle of Humanity lies before me

I have to find the answer The single Perfect ANSWER

(My mother calls me strange, when I stare into a room full of people. Eyes cast down, for fear of staring into the eyes of the predators. The predators waiting to destroy me. I can’t look these creatures in their eyes. I can’t. It hurts. Why can’t there be one simple thing in the world?)

Thank you for reading. Good day.