save the platitudes
for the post-breakdown shower;
towel strewn on the floor,
steam suffocating common sense.
too little to soothe the hate.
stained glass reflects broken pieces
of our souls, a low hum
ascending to screaming
before bursting, limp.
color stands still,
where glass once was,
attempting to rebuild it
more vibrantly, in rebuke
of the damage it barely survived.
before anything else,
know it meant nothing,
means nothing.
arbitrary value assigned
by an unreliable narrator
who drafted this story
out of spite, boredom,
hope, and rage.
the ballpoint is sharpened
against me and threatens
to tear it all away,
like the stained glass,
like your bones.
like all of you.
maybe a poem will save you.
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 11:22 AM UTC
save the platitudes
for the post-breakdown shower;
towel strewn on the floor,
steam suffocating common sense.
too little to soothe the hate.
stained glass reflects broken pieces
of our souls, a low hum
ascending to screaming
before bursting, limp.
color stands still,
where glass once was,
attempting to rebuild it
more vibrantly, in rebuke
of the damage it barely survived.
before anything else,
know it meant nothing,
means nothing.
arbitrary value assigned
by an unreliable narrator
who drafted this story
out of spite, boredom,
hope, and rage.
the ballpoint is sharpened
against me and threatens
to tear it all away,
like the stained glass,
like your bones.
like all of you.
maybe a poem will save you.
Request permission to use this poem