Shards of the body-length mirror
Are pressed firmly in the skin.
Blood dribbles down on the
Snow spotted coffee table.
Dragging the blade of glass
Across the wrist is now
An everyday, effortless need.

I'm sorry that the eyes can't see
That broken mirrors still shine
And that pieces are easier to swallow than a whole depressing picture.

Broken glass still shine in the light.
And flowers don't bloom with out the sun.
You are not wilted and you are not broken...lean towards the healing light.