reassemble. [6.8.09]

it hurts.



begin.
break it down like china dishes, scattered on the floor.
break it down just like a child, always wishing, wanting
more. 
now all the broken pieces are there, the shards scattered around the 
door.
break it down until you realize 
that broken art is
you. 

continue.
reassemble.
box the thoughts, stack them in the closet of your mind,
buried under good intentions, lost between 
the lies. 
scatter the emotions, the pieces cutting sharp
the broken edges creasing bloody cracks around the skin.
hold the shards tighter, press them quickly to the heart. 
feel the beating shudder
once 
once
no more.
stack the bloody pieces in the closet, in the hall.
don’t remember that it’s yourself you’ve left 
behind the door.

end.
go to find the pieces of the broken piece of art
open the empty closet, looking for the empty heart.
panic, blink.
emptiness - the closet holds nothing but
air. 
lost. you’ve lost the pieces, lost the meaning, lost the 
art. 
but strangely you feel nothing 
at all. 

you’re the empty closet
you’re the shadows in the hall
the good intentions, lost
the feelings gone behind the wall.
you’re the empty book, the words
no one could ever mouth.
the dying cigarette clutched in 
some grimy hand.
you’re the clutching of the fist,
the punch that’s never swung. 
the arrow that misses the target,
the songs that aren’t quite song.
the piano that plays just out of tune,
the dying of the moon.
you’re the quiet progression in a chord
that ends too soon.
but mostly, dear, you’re nothing but a fake.
an empty bit of nothingness.
some scattered shards you hate. 


i can’t feel this. 
i can’t feel anything.