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i’m learning that there are these pieces inside of me, 

shards of glass,

growing and hurting. 

i know they’re there

but i can’t get them out. 

i think of the pain but i don’t really feel it; 

like asking “how are you?” but not really meaning it;

like saying “i love you” but never really showing it.

the glass pieces push deeper

and i’m tempted to touch.

but im reminded of the mess i make when i bleed;

“i rather not deal with it,” i think. 

it’s an overflow i can’t control,

so i must be careful. 

but my deformed view cuts me anyway.

and when there’s blood,

(there’s always blood),

i have two options:

nothing more,

nothing less.

one’s ending leaves me punched holes, an empty shelf, and broken locks on doors that don’t close all the way anymore. 

the others’ ending buries me above the depths of my sorrow as new roots puncture through me.

i’ve heard that’s what it means to heal,

but i am fearful of the void.

at this point,

i’ve lost count of every step i’ve already taken.

i am a walking tragedy. 

i’m learning that God does not answer to the living dead.