Broken

“Don’t touch that, you’ll make it worse!”

I struggle to grab and it but it slips through

My shaking fingers

I want to hold it

And pick up the pieces so that

I might be the one to put it all back together

Like the vase I broke when I was five

“That is why you don’t touch what’s not yours!”

My grandma chastises me

as I cry tears of desperation

Because all I wanted was to be elegant

like that old woman I saw

Across the room

when we had Sunday brunch.

I think of this as I stare into its cold, dead eyes

And slowly panic overtakes my frozen body as I

Plan escape from this situation

I close my eyes, my hands fall silent

And I accept its truth as mine.

I pick up what is left of my glass heart,

Look them in their burning sights one last time,

And smile for my last portrait