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Every time I move
I hear the tinkle of broken glass
shards slide and grate past each other
my heart a more fragile gift than I knew I’d offered
shaken and
dropped

Every time I breathe
I hear the exhale of broken dreams

nooooooooooooooooooooo

I create myths
instinctively
for the same reason all myths are created:
to calm a desperate human mind
that cannot understand
how
why
and the cold curtness of
“why not?” in reply, or worse:

silence
so much silence

The stories I tell myself:

there is a certain and unknown number of tears I must shed,
and when I’ve cried them all,
a scabby, scarred heart
and maybe peace
will be mine

if I could just…if I could just…if I could just…
then I’d be able to close the door I know has warped
in this seemingly endless rain,
to remain forever ajar, letting the weather in

if I touched the things you touched,
I would feel closer to you
I would feel less lost
I would feel less loss
and yet your fingerprints are all over my skin
and the memory of their placement
only makes me ache