Hard to Repair

I called myself sweetheart
as I dug through various pillboxes,
though still drowsy from the
drug the night before.

I devour.
I consume.
Frantic, being stuck
within cement walls.

A lost soul.
Lying alone.
Always full of
uncertain emotions.

Ashamed of my past.
I created a monster
within a private sanctuary.
Understanding how to survive.

A constant reminder
that I feel like art to
appreciate, but
hard to repair.