Kintsugi

I loved, contained, in a pretty little box of delusion, as your words swept over me like a cold breeze - heavy, dusty, dark.

Now that’s nothing but a glimpse in the rearview mirror, and I’m left as a cracked shell wishing for a heart to warm.

Maybe I can be mended by Kintsugi, though my reality is more like a popped balloon someone stitched up, praying for it to hold air.

These days I bite my tongue, pretend I don’t feel everything all at once, pretend heaven and hell aren’t at battle in my blood.

There’s a cascade of catastrophe playing out in my head and a whole lot of nothing to hold in my hands.

I try putting myself out there again, in a smokescreen.

But I’m getting sick off the façade.

There have been many phases of me, like faces of the moon, each making up a part of the whole.

If I laid them all out, do you think they’d look familiar? Do you think you could find me buried in the lineup?

The search parties are out and working double.

For now, I’m a gold-plated husk.

Who wants a taste?