I only hear shattering glass over and over again.
It’s breaking.
Choking.
I’m running,
walking,
crawling.
I’m screaming and I’m crying but I’m not sad.
I’m unknowing.
The threads undone.
I did it all wrong.
Mama, please don’t be mad.
I’m picking up the shattered glass.
Each decade that’s past,
I’ve almost lived three.
I haven’t even lived.
Happiness is a frame of mind.
Can’t be touched, only held.