Maybe one day I'll stand on the beach, with salty wind in my hair and warm sun on my skin and cool waves around my feet and I'll feel true bliss. Maybe one day I'll sit on a bench in an autumn forest with crisp air and the crunch of leaves beneath and feel true peace. Maybe one day I'll laugh with friends and joke with family and feel truly alive.

Maybe one day I'll feel a million things that I should and be just right. Some day, perhaps.

But that day is not today. Nor was it yesterday, or the day before, or ever. Because I can't stop thinking that I'm this broken thing that needs to be fixed. I fell from my shelf a long time ago and shattered all over the floor.

I'm still gathering up my pieces. But there's so many.

So.

Many.

And I'm not sure I can ever rebuild my damaged soul.

I'm not sure I'll ever piece myself together, or that the pieces even fit anymore. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to burn bright and blaze a path through the darkness. I'm not sure I'll dream and wake up smoldering with ambition. I'm not sure I'll ever not choke on the dirty rag that mental chaos has shoved down my throat. I'm not sure anyone will ever hear me screaming and dying and no one will even stay to watch.

I'm not sure I'll ever rise to my feet and stand strong like a fortress, because a house built on sand is a house doomed to fall. 

But...you never know. Maybe one day.