on some days

On some days

I wear my goose bumps

like armor

and step out into the world

carrying my fragility

like a weapon.

 

 

I step out

into a war I didn’t start.

A war I can’t end.

 

 

It’s easy to break me.

But when I break I shatter

into poetry;

into sharp

shards

of hand-painted glass.

When

I

break

I will slice the hand that broke me.

 

 

When I break,

(because I do break)

I can’t be put back together.

Well, maybe I could,

but I won’t look like I did before.

Maybe I’ll look better.