Shattered

I was made shattered.
A ruined 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’m the broken vase that lies on the floor,
the spilled water decorating the tile
with the tattered roses begging for life.
The body is soft and supple, able to absorb blows.
Identities are fragile and difficult to repair.
Myself is destroyed.
I’ve put the pieces back together with glue

-that’s progress-
but the glue is still curing and the pieces
don’t fit together quite right.
I’m not okay.
We work with available light
to mend the fractured soul.
Like plates, I am the
product of human efforts.
You made me shatter.

This poem is about: 
Me

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