I only pick up a pen when my life is crumbling
It's been months
and last night I wrote 27 pages but ripped each one up like trying to keep secrets from myself
I guess I am tired of overflowing
Leaky tap with no fix
People are sick, ripping wings off everything
Angel wings don't grow back
I tried to convince myself — "if you break it, you buy it"
But I knew he couldn't afford me
I sit like fine tea cups in the cabinet
waiting and waiting
You picked me up, touched me like I was glass
but now
I bite my nails, I cry in my sleep
Glass breaks — and he has become
quite purposefully, intentionally clumsy

(B.N)