Some men walk around broken
With shards of glass souls cutting anything and anyone brave enough to get too close

She has an open wound that won’t quit bleeding
Doused in the perfume of iron
She is getting used to wearing her new scent

She has a pile of empty wine bottles
A pride fragmented into pieces of bitterness and regret scattered across her kitchen floor
A mind seeking silence

And she has a notebook full of beautiful words woven together
Layers of prose make up the patchwork from which she sews meaning out of the pain

She drinks up words like an elixir meant to pump life back into her aorta
Her pulse beats with ambivalence
She envies the electrical current moving throughout her

But they are only words
And she’s nothing much of an alchemist