The Vase I Was Holding

I broke the vase I was holding behind my back.

I could have put it down

kept it steady and sound.

It’s still at risk of tipping,

bodies clipping the edge

and causing it to tumble.

The risk of fumble

is still there.

But it’s where

we can all be aware,

and keep a careful eye.

Even just to hold it front,

and hold it close

if that’s what you chose,

then they could still see it.

A flash,

a hint,

covering cracks, 

but leave enough

so you admit

to the trouble you have holding it.

But I held mine behind.

Stretching arms,

shaking

pay no mind

to the man behind the curtain.

Tell me more,

about the ones we see,

the certain.

Those vases need more care.

A little rusty,

chipped,

worn,

a flair

of years of trauma.

I grew warmer to these vases,

and I ignored my own.

We talked about the edges,

sharp and out of reach,

through my gritted teeth,

as the ones behind my back

dug right through the skin.

Exhaustion setting in,

it took over my behaviour

overwhelming senses,

turning into senselessness,

turning into carelessness.

The ones with open vases

pushed me back.

No one could guess it.

Not many saw it.

Not when I dropped it.

…

I broke the vase I was holding behind my back.

I tried to clean it up.

Stepping through the scattered cracks.

It hurts.

Stuffing pieces under shirts.

I’ll worry about that later.

What did you say about your outfit?

Keep talking as I sweep this-

Oh, that little piece?

Shit, there’s one I miss-

What, that scratch I got?

Don’t worry.

You weren’t meant to see it.