I was made broken.
A shattered soul now exists
where a whole person
once
was.
I break plates and glasses,
smashing them for release;
The fractured pieces litter the floor
and I can't help but relate
to each broken fragment.
I am the broken vase that lies on the floor,
the spilled water imbelished the tile
with a tattered white rose
begging for
life.
I have put the pieces back together with tape-
which is progress-
but the tape still peels and pieces
don't fit together quite right.
I am not okay.
Each touch is a switch
that triggers an old memory.
My arms cry out to be wrapped in yours,
But my body quickly tightens.
I am so sorry.
You work with
what you can
to mend the fractured soul.
Like the plates, I am a product
of hatred.
She made me shatter.
YOU ARE READING
They Want to be Heard
PuisiA book of poems for the many different imaginary friends and characters I have. They tell me what they want to say and I write it for them. Perhaps some of you can figure out who the speaker is.
