i look in
and see the broken bits
and that the things
that no longer fit

they did not tell you
about privilege
but, nonetheless
you understood the contract

misty eyed adventures
told like ragged folk tales
or new age ghost stories
they all stand to attention

we are jigsaw puzzles
in pieces
held in bags
we are the rumenation
of all that makes us sad

i went to bed,
but then realisation
pulled the covers back
and i thought,
perhaps that is true