Shatter

Stands at the window
making eyes at her own reflection.
Wonders what will happen
when the glass breaks.
The room is small and
dark and
everyday. Ordinariness and lack of
fantasy abide and abound.
Life keeps going on,
the couch is still ripped.
The curtains still plaid,
and the dishes still need done.
Thinks about the feeling of her
fist against shattering-incarnate
and what will it feel like
to be part of the glass -
her skin will

beinthesamespace

and the molecules will mingle
- and maybe she will
shatter too.
Feels like
all the other heartbreaks.
Size doesn't really seem to matter anymore.
Big and small and
all the other words and thoughts in between
are immaterial.
They all hurt.
So, maybe this one won't soothe
with a few tears and a day spent in bed.
Frustration
and squirming
out from under the heat of now.
Wants to be
another element.
Earth; Sand.
Plus Fire
makes the Glass.
She could be the glass.


I could be the glass.


Fist so tight
feel half-moons in my skin;
fingernails make patterns of blood.
Drive it forward.

Shatter.