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He's lost the best of me and what's left still wants him. I find parts of me everywhere, finding them gleaming in dusty corners and I gather the fragments in my hand, a fine sand of feelings, and hoard them under the bed, staring at them when he's not there. Like a child sneaking a peek at the shadows from beneath the blanket, I treasure them. He's turned me into a puzzle that I'm scared to complete; I'm his toy and he's my restless toy maker. Now he's gone so far, what's left to do but wait? But I won't. I force myself down my throat to see if I still fit. I won't. If you treat yourself like food, you become it. I gnawed off a finger yesterday and swallowed it. He can't have that, an edible delicary for myself. The cause has eaten the effect, I'm useless now anyway. He's left me in parts and bones that aren't mine, and I don't recognise the pieces left anymore. I'm an illusion to myself- am I real anymore? He's lost the best of me and I'm forced to feed on the rest.