Star-Crossed Mourner

If you asked me why I'm sad, I'd ask you why I shouldn't be. Then I'd go on to explain that sad isn't really correct terminology. I'm more of unsad, yet still unhappy. Because I don't know who I am. All I know is that I never seem to get it right. I can never seem to please you. And I think that no matter how hard I try, this feeling will never go away. Actually more like unfeeling. Because I would give anything for my heart to beat again. Feel again. For my lungs to chug and chug, sending the dust flying. I'd give anything to be whole again. I'm that fucking jigsaw with the mysteriously missing piece. The puzzle that no one ever bothered to finish. I'm a mess. My completing part got sucked up in the vacuum or is hidden between couch cushions. But no one cares enough to find it. I'm nothing. I am a cold shoulder that turned into a snowy mountain top. A goodbye licked by frost. The last "I love you," frozen over. I'm unsad, yet still unhappy. But don't worry, no one will ever ask me why I'm sad, so I'll never have to tell.