I was 13 the day I broke my mother’s favorite vase
and she said
Isn’t it good that things make noise when they break
so that we know to move out of the way
as if shattering was a warning
rather than an end
So much of my life has been the putting back together
the hardware store glue
the coworker 7 years later who still sees the cracks
the way I am 13 again every time someone asks if I’m ok
I open my mouth and shards come out
or I am the shards
I have spent years trapped inside this throat
and now cannot find my way back into my body
I am the flowers crumpled into the carpet
how my mother never quite got the stains out
you wouldn’t have guessed
there was so much color just waiting
to live outside its body
But of course there was never a shattered vase
there was a bottle of pills, a pair of scissors & a lonely room
what I’m trying to say is
did anyone hear my breaking before I hit the ground
was there ever a warning?
but also this is not about the self-destructive tendencies of a girl
it is about the sound that is still vibrating off of these walls
the poems that are always the same
(the shattering is a warning rather than an end)
there are days when I stay in bed
buy ice cream at the deli on my block
watch two seasons of The Office in one day
& do not know if this is selfcare
or mental illness holding me hostage
My friend says “just get up & do the things you need to do”
and suddenly all the days I have done this
mean nothing and the days I have not are failure
I think about the walk to the subway
the people pushing up against me
the men who always stare too long
the professor who calls on me when my hand is not raised
the customer who yells about the wrong coffee
the way the smallest pieces of glass can still leave you
needing stitches
the way I still keep all my flowers in plastic pots
the way I am still so scared
of the breaking
Poems 