The little things

Shards

I'm just a shattered vase on the floor that everyone takes a different approach to.

There are those who tiptoe around the pieces so as not to cut themselves, they don't want the pain that comes with me, the sharpness, the sting.

There are those that are more clumsy and stumble around, the occasional graze a little nic or scratch here and there, but no major damage, no full commitment to these wounds.

Then there are those who are ignorant or blind and step straight in my sharp pieces only to be impaled, the shards stuck in them, the stinging pain, the running blood staining everything red.

But there is never that person with the gentle touch, to pick up my pieces, to say it'll be alright, to say I can be fixed. No one that slowly puts the pieces back together, and goes searching for all the tiny missing pieces.

I'm left scattered, in pieces, dangerous, a sharp tongue protecting every broken piece of me.

But when I am no longer scattered when I am gathered up, it is not to be put back together, it's to be discarded then have society give its order and have me remoulded into something acceptable.

But the tiny pieces that weren't collected are still missing, so they make me smaller. But I I wasn't meant to be like this, so as I am put on the lower shelves, not worthy of showcase, the cracks begin to appear, until I fall apart, and this time I'm discarded for good.

Not fit to live in this world of perfection, this world of conformity. I am not even shown the slightest mercy for I was never anyone's favourite despite my imperfections.

Each piece of my shattered glass unique, none the same as the last. I am a combination of colours in spiralling patterns, I am not one simple plain colour.

But alas I am shattered, I am left that way, unable to fix myself.

Each piece unable to reach another, I remain broken.

Originally published 20th February 2015