REPUZZLED

She sits alone in a dark room lit by harsh neon pink and black light. Her body isn’t flesh — it’s made of puzzle pieces. Some fit, but most of her is missing. Gaps run down her arms, her torso, her legs, like she’s been taken apart and never fully put back together. Her head rests on one hand. Exhaustion is written in her posture. In her other hand she holds a single puzzle piece, turning it over like she’s not sure it belongs to her anymore. She wears a choker with a barbed-wire heart, tattoos trailing down her arms, and black shorts. Her pink and blue hair falls over her face, but you can still see the quiet ache in her eyes. The background is minimal, just shadow and neon glow, so all you see is her and the emptiness inside her. She looks tired, not broken. Repulsed by her own pieces, repuzzled by where they go. She’s the version of you on the nights you feel unfinished — still sitting, still holding the last piece, still hoping it might fit someday.