Cracked glass-
my heart
snapping
slowly
under my fingertips,
disintegrating
into shards. I have so
many splinters
and the glass scrapes my skin-
my flesh is raw and flaky, red.
I had dreams. I wanted to get
somewhere.
Now I'm nowhere. I'm stuck here: a pit.
This pit releases a sour stench
every time I walk down:
blood, heartache, curdled dreams,
antiseptic,
the morphine we used at Christmas to make us numb (that also makes us gag),
stenches so strong I can taste them
as I inhale.
All I do is sit
when I want to sing-
I hear the snapping each moment I sit.
With each day,
I. Stare. Out.
What keeps me in the pit?
No chains, I know, that I can see
and yet
I huff the sewer stench all the more.
The cracked glass is cracking still now
into even smaller pieces
and
I'm still here.