I guess this is it.
Here I am,
Here we are.
This is what this world is now I guess,
A broken heart trying to beat and force out the broken glass
That corrodes the arteries and makes it harder
And so we stagger,
Our hands grasping at nothing but oh, it must be something.
this can’t be all that this world has to give us--
And try not to fall as we wander the skeleton
Of this old creaky house with
the furniture covered in white dusty sheets,
bleached by the sun.
Sometimes we peer out of the warped glass windows
Bubbled and bloated from years of
Ingesting conjunctions and pronouns.
We peep through the faded curtains, slightly parted
And glimpse what could be
but we are not brave enough to open the window.
Because we are scared of facing the mistakes we’ve made.
Our feet scuff across the wooden floor
Filling us with splinters we don’t see until it’s too late.
Pictures in dim frames fall off the walls behind us but
Only a few get hung back up.
We are not paying attention to things of the past and future
Only the present.
In the bedrooms, vases of etiolated tattered flowers
Take leaps off the bedside tables, smashing their existence.
But we do not notice natural beauty committing suicide next to us
Because of the things we’ve said.
Our broken heart of a population is failing.
The pieces all thumping at different intervals
And we sit oblivious
Ignoring the glassen slivers that penetrate deep.
We throw rocks at windchimes, listen
To them cascade in pure silver violence as
Their colors drift and join
The smoke that curls out of the patchwork chimney is
Dense and full of voices,
All struggling to be seen but
Evaporating before they can become completely relevant.
We try to light the candles in the dining room
That have already melted out
Hoping that these little waxen figures will once more shed light on our situations.
Instead, we catch the polished table on fire
Alighting the stable base holding everything up.
The one thing we don’t want to burn
Is turning to ash beneath our shaking fingers.
The faucet in the kitchen won’t stop running
Dripping out the truth that we have whitewashed for our own sake,
And the cabinets open and close on their own,
Dispelling things we wish to stay locked up.
The cold tile floor is harsh like sandpaper
Scraping us raw until we are bare and open and can’t hide anymore.
The mail is piling up
Bills that we don’t open, don’t pay, don’t address.
Because why do those when we can fill out subscriptions for new magazines instead?
Just leave the important papers on a chair, we’ll regret it later when we’re evicted,
But not right now
Not while we can flop down on pillows and cushions
Stuffed with self love and reassurance
And read our pages filled with gossip that doesn’t matter now
And won’t in the future.
Because the way we’re running this house?
It will soon collapse from the weight of all our wrongs.
And as for the glass shards---they will soon reach the middle of this broken heart
And stop the pulsing center.
There won’t be a future.