Who knew

I am trying to remember and yet I cannot find a time when I was not complete. No, maybe that is the wrong word, I am more than complete, I am coming apart at the seams, rather the word would be whole. I cannot remember a time when I was whole. All these parts of me, trying to escape, it is truly a tiresome affair. I am set on making them fit, bend them to my will, but my will is pathetic at its best and so they all run loose, making of me a playground; and a fool. And so my days are spent  taming the beast, but the beast is me.