you think they get it,
and they try to get it,
and all the pieces you allowed
to slice into your palms
for so long
shatter to the ground,
and they help you
sweep them out into the backyard.
but they begin to forget,
they forget to wipe their shoes off
at the backdoor
and they trail your pieces
back into the kitchen.
they continue to forget,
they forget that those were
once pieces of you
and not eggshells
that they must tiptoe on,
pieces that still shatter
under minimal pressure.
and then they forget altogether,
they forget the way
your body curved in on itself
and the way sobs wracked
up your spine and across your ribs,
like a fervent storm
slamming into the base of
a teetering tree.
they forget the way
you were unresponsive
for forty five minutes,
staring blankly out farther than
your weakened eyesight
could perceive.
they forget the way
you eye steak knifes
like exit ramps off of
long highways
and the way
your gnarled nails
press crescents
into your palms
until stars flash across your vision.
they forget these things,
and the soles of their shoes
splinter those blood soaked
pieces like fractured glass,
and they dig deeper
into your palms this time
when you have to pick them up alone.