by Fitz Fitzpatrick

You watch your favorite glass fall off a ledge
and shred into a thousand heartbreak reflections of yourself.
A lump catches the scream in your throat.
You don’t feel anything,
Just wonder why you can’t move.
There is no time.
You have to go to work,
go see friends,
do the dishes.
Sweep up the remnants quickly,
without precision or care.
It’s really okay.
It’s really no big deal.
These things happen.
Don’t even think about this glass for weeks.
There are far too many other things to think about.
There is work.
There is the rent.
There is a show you must prepare for.
There’s a party you are throwing and everyone is invited. You must clean the house.
Put out snacks. Put out paper cups and paper plates so you don’t have to do the dishes.
You hate doing them now.
Don’t remember why. Make some jokes.
Have some laughs. Hold them close and everyone tells you how great you look,
how happy they are that you are doing so well.
Go to bathroom.
Trip, over one little shard that you missed.
There is blood everywhere. Has it always been there?
Pick up that piece and hold it.
And cry for it.
And hate it.
And no one understands why you’ve been in the bathroom so long
or why you’re crying at a party.
It barely happened before. It is all of you now.
What gives you the right to bleed so much?
Other people had it so much worse.
And you don’t understand why the whole floor is shimmering,
why everyone you love looks like they have sharp edges
like they are made of broken glass now
and how
you’re supposed to just
keep walking.
So keep hiding
No one needs to know why
You only keep plastic cups now.
And If everyone loved you when you were gray,
who is gonna want you with all this messy color
pouring from your wrists?

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