I Am a Shattered Mosaic

I am a mosaic of everyone I've ever loved.

I used to think that it was beautiful to be a mosaic of everyone I’ve ever loved. A living medly, made from laughter, touch, moments. A gentle caress when someone would brush the hair from my face, that would become mine. A splitting laughter married to an innocent smile, that would become mine. I thought that if I collected enough pieces, I would make the most gorgeous mosaic.

But I don’t. Instead, I carry too many faces in my mind that aren’t mine to wear. I carry too many voices that live in me that no longer belong in my life. Too many ways of being that once belonged to someone else. I laugh like one person, shout like another, and love like the third.

Being made of everyone I’ve ever loved means that when they leave, they take pieces, too. And I let them. ‘It’s only fair.’ I handed over fragments of myself too willingly, and much too quietly, believing love meant surrender. Sacrifice. Now I don’t know what I’ve kept. I don’t know if I’ve kept anything at all.

And when I look in the mirror, I see someone with familiar features, but I don’t know her. It is like recognising someone, but you can’t recall how it is your paths crossed to begin with. I can name the root of each piece, but not the person holding them. I don’t know who I am outside of who I’ve tried to be for others.

They say mosaics are beautiful. But no one talks about how cold the pieces feel at night. How dirt falls through the cracks between. How pieces don’t quite fit. Maybe that’s all I’ve ever been: a collection of everyone I’ve loved, and everything I couldn’t hold onto. Maybe that’s still beautiful.