Glass House

The pieces of me scatter across the floor making a shimmering sound like rain.

Their edges are sharp like shards of broken glass.

They form jagged edges that pierce skin and draw blood.


The face staring back at me through the pieces is broken, too —

features no longer line up where they are supposed to.


Has it always been this hard to see my reflection?

Where is the familiar face I am so used to?

The eyes that stare back at me seem lost and foreign —

I don't recognize who I've become.


I try to gather the pieces in my hands to make sense of what I see —

to make sense of what I feel —

but the edges no longer fit together.

I'm trying to put together the wrong puzzle.


And slowly, a single solitary light shines through the open window

bouncing off the scattered pieces

and the room is suddenly dancing in color.


The corners of my mouth turn up slowly as the light hits my eyes

so that I can see what was there all along.


I am not broken.

I never was.




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