fragile is the name, crimson
stamped across my forehead
not a treasure chest, a trove
but instead a wooden casket
i think about how effortlessly
i could dip a pale finger into honey
stick it between my teeth like a cigar
and bite it clean off my palm
only a crunch and metallic aftertaste
i romanticize the thought of
splitting the textile of my cranium
and sending shards of my disposition
that could slice into my soles
scattering across the wooden floor
i guess i must be tough, to not follow through
i guess i must be just a bit as solid, as fragile
if only i knew how to be soft, pillowed
if only i knew how to fold and mold,
could knead myself like marzipan
if only i knew how to melt myself
into the semblance of concrete
and chisel myself into the shelf
and not the damn chinaware
the porcelain, glass, frosty hard candies
smashed, crushed to jagged smithereens
aren't they exquisite? aren't they divine?
how they shatter, but how they do shine
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Poetryoh what a mess we've made! {highest rank #17 in poetrycollection}