Walking on these shards of glass, my feet do not quaver.

But I stumble down this well lit path and I'm too sorely shaken

To see the flow of crimson passion pouring from deep within me.

Every breath I take is even as I climb this treacherous peak.

Yet each one on this rolling hill feels like my heart is torn from me.

Words flow by me like an evening breeze, sitting here.

But as I stand, the torrent hits and bites and growls;

Look at me, these tears are not for you.

These tears are mine,

As my battered soul is pulled from my already throbbing chest.

My hands, of their own accord, clutch the hole,

Where my center was.

What I have lost, cannot be replaced.

What I have lost, can be found.

Slowly, on bruised and bleeding knees I am picking up the pieces.

I must affix what I have learned with who I used to be.