I have a broken mirror
in my pocket
I carry it with me
wherever I go
(the shards cut through my jeans, stab my thigh
dyeing my pants red)

I have tried to take it
out, pick
the pieces
out of there                      

                      (it's easier to just leave it.)
I end up with only ******
fingertips, I smear   my
                    blood on the rugs
I sleep on,
                               the bed is too soft, too warm
                                                         to sleep in

I'm not used to kindness
or- - - - - even
        liking someone

                         so I become
scared, that things won't
                                              work out

and when you try to pick these
shards out of my leg,




(turning your beautiful
          fingers red&raw;)

when you try helplessly

to erase my pain

                                           I will lay on this blood-  
                                                                ­   stained



rug                              and think






Why are you doing
              

                      this
  


            for me