Turning, turning

I was turning,
turning, turning
trying to get
my puzzle piece
to fit the
jigsaw
but the rounded
edges had no
place
and the right
angles fitted
as space.

I  belonged to
another board
somewhere else
another place
that I never found

all that
effort was
a waste
round peg
square hole
it was a 
painful 
thing the 
not-belonging

planted firmly
in the 
wrong ground
with an uncaring
boot.

I chiselled pieces
off to try and
fit:  self-mutilate to
grow into another
shape, with no
food.  It doesn't work.
I understood.

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