Why try to fix what’s shattered through? When each piece cuts deeper than glue can do. Some things aren’t puzzles they're warzones in silence, where bandages rot under hands too violent. I was never asking for heaven, just for someone to sit in the rubble with me, hold my hand without trying to map me back to who I used to be. I never asked for repair only for someone who wouldn’t flinch at the cracks, who wouldn’t see the darkness and try to paint over it with white lies and feedback. They say broken attracts broken but I never wanted someone to bleed with, I wanted someone to breathe with. To say, “Your chaos doesn’t scare me. Your sadness doesn’t burden me. Your silence doesn’t make me leave.” But here I am, talking to ghosts in the shape of people, offering truths that echo in empty steeples, and even when I scream vulnerability, I’m met with glass eyes and vacant empathy. So tell me what’s the point of opening a locked door when no one stays long enough to step in? I’m tired of begging the rain to fall softer on my skin. All I ever wanted was to be loved, not reassembled but understood, held not handled. But all I feel is sadness thick like fog in my throat, emptiness like letters I never wrote, loneliness like a name I forgot to give myself. And maybe the only one who can truly stay is me if I learn to live in my ruin, not fix it. To carry the ache, not dismiss it. Because maybe… the only thing that makes sense with a broken soul is the soul that still wants love at all.