It is hard to write poetry when you are broken.

A hand here, a kneecap there

All strewn senselessly on the kitchen floor


You wait for a man with a toolbelt to stumble across the pieces of you and take pity


A Good Samaritan,

or even a Robin Hood


You wait for him to fish out his hammer and nails and

gift you new life

His reconstruction is haphazard at best, but it’ll do


Maybe it’ll be better this way, anyway.


Maybe the nails sticking out of your elbows

and catching on loose threads of other people’s sweaters will remind you

that you have to watch where you’re going, sometimes


Maybe the pipes moving the blood

from your heart to your head will rust

Just a little

Just enough to remind you that you are not invincible


Maybe the twig in place of your backbone will splinter

It’ll prick you when you take too deep a breath

When you get too comfortable


Maybe the plastic bags filling with air as you inhale

will only have half the capacity that your lungs did

They’ll remind you how ungrateful you were for the things that came easy



Or maybe the strings stitching your skin together

will act as better puppeteers than you ever could


Maybe the rope keeping your head on straight

will give you something to grip when you’re six inches tall

and standing on a globe in a second grade classroom,

tiny fingers sending you spinning

when you’ve only just gotten your feet on the ground


And maybe your tongue will be salvageable

You’ll be a mismatched mess with landfill ligaments

but your words will still be your own


Maybe you need to be broken.


Maybe somebody will fancy you a piece of modern art

They won’t quite understand you,

a man-made disaster of epic proportions

But when they see you in a gallery

and search for a placard to explain you,

You’ll tell them your tongue works just fine.


Maybe your words are enough.


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