August 17, 2010
By Anonymous

You are broken,
your pieces seemed to fly.
As the glass holding you
littered the floor.
Your face
once whole
now rests on the cold linoleum tiles
in millions of pieces.
You stare up at the figure standing above you
the figure that only a few moments ago
held your gaze.

You cry out
to be put back together,
to rest in your frame,
to hold the figures face,
to mimic their stare
that never withered,
that only asked for answers,
but you only replied with silence.

You watch them
curl their fingers back into fists.
Fists that just destroyed your face,
and broke your gaze.
Cool crimson ink trickles down their pale skin
and falls off their angry fists,
hit’s the linoleum
splashes onto a piece of your lips.
The taste of blood fills your senses
and your gaze shifts from the figure to
the floor that stretches in front of you.
the drop of blood resides.
Along with pieces of your face.
Lonely parts waiting to be put back,

The figure looks down
to see what they have broke.
You watch as its eyes scan your helpless pieces.
You watch as its lips coil into a sneer
before turning and leaving you
on the bitter unforgiving floor,
To clean up their mess yourself.

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