Ode to Broken Things

 

when I was eight,
anger was in my veins, a literal trait,
so I broke my grandmama’s vase,
everyone kept saying it was just phase,
and then, my nimble fingers 
touched fragile objects, thumbprints lingered,
and somehow, cracks appeared,
she breaks everything she touches, mom feared.
so she put away the fine china, 
the fruit bowl holding the papaya,
the glass statue,
and then, I was no longer eight,
trying to start middle school with a clean slate,
when a girl said my mustache was kind of ugly,
that my fat wasn’t very cuddly,
she said it so bluntly, 
it must have been true, so what did I do?
after school, I stared at the mirror so hard,
I looked at my knuckles completely scarred,
and then back at the cheeks on my face, 
only to see a masterpiece of shattered glass in its place,
I walked to school with broken fingers,
but nobody knew that my self-esteem was cut 
open with scissors,
that the pulsing of the old wounds of my heart,
hurt more than the pulsing bones. 

so then I was left with broken vases,
broken bones, and broken self-esteem. 
like, god please give me a break! 
for my brain’s sake! 
she can’t take this damage, this heartbreak.
I’m here now, breathing this air, 
it’s clear that everyone in my school is here 
for the same reason,
we’re all “medicine this, medicine that” 
everything’s a comparison, but every time my grade drops 
the whole world stops,
and a mom cries, “you’ve wanted this since you were two” 
so I’ve shattered her dreams and mine, 
but it’s not her fault, 
I’ve just poured salt in the wound 
these days, my voice is an ugly croon,
and somehow, people don’t see it,
HOW DO YOU NOT SEE IT?
it’s like my brain is split apart, 
it hurts so bad, my poor heart, 
still beats because it’s scared I might want to leave 
this broken soul, there’s like a hole,
broken, unspoken— and somehow 
by some miracle, there’s still something left to break, 
what more will I take, from myself,
I found poetry and held it between my front two teeth,
at first, it was sweet, 
ugly thoughts wrapped in soft silk,
and then, it started to taste like sour milk,
it’s like I’m rebreaking the broken bones,
once, twice, it never breaks the right way,
back to when I wasn’t broken, 
I’m living in a casket that I built myself.
I wrote the flame that burns me now. 
they say I’m being dramatic,
but to me, this is automatic,
at one point my poetry becomes regal,
it’s only lethal if you read between the lines, 
WHY ISN’T ANYONE READING BETWEEN MY LINES? 
so I started to rhyme my thoughts,
this is my cry for help, 
not from anyone here, but for myself,
maybe at twelve, I’ve broken myself beyond repair,
but I’ll just have to strip this disgusting personality bare,
and restart, 
my poems are not my poetry,
it’s telling myself everything wrong about me,
screaming at the top of my lungs,
because leaving the words at my tongue 
doesn’t seem to be helping anymore, 
I’m a product of this broken society,
and it’s a lot of anxiety, 
with every step of life, I try to thrive
but life gives a death sentence and still expects me to 
survive, so I reign in my fists, click my wrists,
and suddenly everything around me is broken
maybe I’ll break myself down to dust,
and build new bones and trust, 
maybe I’ll stop breaking things 
no more falling, I’ll build myself some wings. 
we’ll see what this new person brings,
to everyone who cares, even if I’m the only one 
who’s left in this audience,
be patient with me, recreation is just as hard as creation.
my broken things aren’t beautiful, but maybe it can be.