Sometimes I sit
hunched
over a pile of
broken glass
trying to glue the pieces
together to make something
that makes sense
but the pieces are all
different every time I
look at them
sizes, shapes and colors
all in flux
like beach sand
under a microscope
and some are circles
worn by this ceaseless sand
and some are jagged
and freshly broken
and look
you can see
a little blood
on this one here
and it’s not my blood
--this time.
Not that it matters
anyway because
I pick through this glass
and get cut
again
and again
and again
until my fingers are
shreds
and can’t grip
anything
and my blood makes
the glass all the same color
and when it dries
the coagulation
of my failure
holds together this ball of
endless translucent
torment
and I put it back into my chest
and zip up my ribs and
try to forget about the whole thing.

Until
it starts
to hurt
again.