Some are almost shattered.
They’re pieces, scratching tearing grinding
you can tell something isn't
Like a ceramic vase dragged across gravel.
Their moods are brief flashes of— mommy's hugs
and strangers—Kicking the shit out of their bowels.
They aren't even w h o l e,
merely p i e c e s of ceramic and clay.
Some are smooth, held in a gentle hand.
But others are jagged reminders of being hurled into a wall.
I often wonder if it's my responsibility to mend these pieces,
or just let them be
as I've grown to admire the individuality
of these shattered personalities.