Spilled Ink

Glass

 i am broken.

fragments of blue glass found on an empty beach

washed smooth by years of crashing waves.

they were my grandmother's.

she kept them on a dusty bookshelf

in a set of wooden drawers

i used to pull them out one by one

and lay them on my palm

seashells and a crab's claw

and even a fragile seahorse skeleton

and i used to run my fingers across

the coloured glass

thinking

how years of exposure

to the harsh world

had only washed its sharp edges smooth.

i am a shadow of myself

edges defined against the brick wall of my old school playground

where long-legged spiders would bathe in the sunlight

everyone else was afraid of them

but i

i was fascinated.

i was outside the box

and never really cared about fitting into it

the strange little girl who played by herself in the rain

spinning in circles

and watching pavement beneath her feet

swirl.

if people are clay

then perhaps mine

was fashioned differently to the others

and i didn't care

until one day

i did.

i tried my best

to fit myself into the same mould

that the world had been trying to shove me in

all along

i wanted to be uniform

but i was never supposed to conform

now my clay is marred

flawed

not etched with beautiful imperfections

but wrecked

crushed by the unflinching hand of society

and no matter how hard i try

i can never take back my original form.

i never really fitted into the mould.

i am a CD stuck on one track

and god, i am sick of this song.

i am a star

whose light still touches the earth

although i have long since burnt out

and yet

people still keep making wishes on me.

i was colour.

the vivid hues of my imagination

a palette of scarlet and glorious gold

my dreams

were luscious green

and my quiet perceptions

silvery blue

and my hope

stretched further than the rainbow.

i had so much hope.

but something is wrong

the colours are gone

swirling like the pavement in the rain

and now

all that is left

is grey.

i tell myself

that my star can be relit

as easily as a candle flame

and that colour can be brought back

to a world of grey

i can remould my clay

this song doesn't have to play forever

all I have to do

is change the track.

and maybe i can

but not today

i tell myself

never today.

i have failed her.

the little girl who spun in a playground

with the fertile imagination

and the hungry mind

and the hope.

i can never become

what she wanted;

i can never become

what i  want.

years of exposure to the world

have done anything but

smooth my sharp edges.