precariously balanced, these glass shards are.
little pebbles mingle in her hands, forming
a little hill of something that used to be big
and beautiful. the artist, she will keep holding
on until her fingers break and her heart stops.
so she prepares to put the past back together.

breath shaky, she knows that beauty has a price.
so she cancels her weekend plans, give up on
finally cleaning her cluttered room, dons her
work clothes, and begins a project anew.

the artist’s fingers are not trembling, but
her resolve is. there is great pressure; to
be god one must create something out
of nothing. to be an artist, one must create
something beautiful out of a mess. she
does not want to be god, but glass is harder
to piece back together than it is to make.
and she cannot hold it together anymore.

they fall to the floor, the artist and her
failed masterpiece. glass makes a pretty
sound when it breaks, and so does her heart.
a pretty little ****** that resounds in
the floorboards, that travels to the neighbours
and makes them smile because something
almost beautiful but not quite is happening.

beauty has it’s price.
but this artist is too poor to pay in full.