it's never what you expect
the single brilliant explosion
the sound of something shattering
deep in your chest
instead:
tired. tired. you really don't think
something this broken
can lose anymore
of its grimy bits
it's those cheap white ceramic bowls
chipped already, they don't
come back together
when they fall from trembling hands
to worn wood floors bowed in the middle and collecting rain
Yet?
(no one warned me. Guess I'm more leather than glass)
The pieces don't come at all.
Another hairline crack
straining the seams until they bleed
with oil & spit)
yet the bowl feels and looks whole
when you pick it up for the
millionth time--
dust off the dog hair and crumbs
throw it into the sink for later--
I'm too worn to hold
anything more in my skins
crunchy, dry and frayed
they bow, too,
and out too far in the center
avoid the rain now
it pours enough under roofs
does nothing to cleanse me
spills spread heavy into stains
and the burst comes somewhere (everywhere?)
in your stomach instead,
I'm all snot and tears and
burning eyes
Wait with bated breath
for the coming crackle
please, gods, don't make me
pick the chips back up again
(!!!!)
elmer's glue and cheap black paint
only do so much
throw what's left in a river
swollen with yellow mud and trash
boil and gurgle over
and burn what the water spits up
About the Creator
Felecia Burgett
Novice writer, amateur novelist, poet, article writer, dabble, and animal lover.
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