broken, always

I'm broken. 
(We all are.)

Some are broken open.
Or broken down.
Or broken away.
Or broken in spirit.
Or broken up.
Or broken in ways we don't want to fix.
Or we can't fix.

Shattered again and again by this world
these people
these hearts.

My heart seems to break
a million times a day.
These days.
These wide open, too much, too fast days.

And sometimes I know what it means
and sometimes it just hurts
and sometimes I can't find one of the pieces

The silence in these moments post-breaking
is the stillness of hesitation
the moments where no one knows what to do

do you clean it up
do you throw the pieces away
do you try to fix it

do you wait

I hate the waiting
and the quiet of eyes that look to me
to say it's okay
to tell them what to do

as though I have any idea
as though offering is enough

I want someone to step in with a broom
with glue
with a piece of strong wood to collect a new mirror
to create something beautiful from all this mess

maybe we can fix things
maybe not

but at least I won't be left standing here
holding my own pieces

in shock
in shaking disbelief
that a heart could break that far

I don't want to be alone in this

and I know it's scary
and I know I don't know what to do next

you don't have to know either
but stay with me
until it makes sense

or until we get sick of the mess
or until we find a box big enough
to hold this new mystery
until we can solve it
or celebrate it

broken, maybe always
but these sharp edges 
surround spaces made for holding
​

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