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I AM A KNOWN BREAKER OF BROKEN THINGS
I am a known breaker of broken things.
I can guarantee the permanent dismantling
of anything even moderately salvageable.
While gluing the handle back on your
favorite mug?
I will undoubtedly manage to chip the rim.
Patching your jeans I'll blow a seam
rendering them unwearable.
Listen.
Next time you're on your hands and knees
digging through dust bunnies for those lost batteries.
You. Will. Regret. The day
I offered to fix the remote control
because I inevitably manage to crack
the plastic snap off the back,
that delicate tab meant to
hold everything together.
I'm not the best at keeping it together.
See, my dad was the guy who'd give you
a reason to cry if you couldn't supply
a full alibi for every. Single. Tear.
Complaining about scraped knees or bee
stings earned a two-fold return in the currency
of pain, teaching a younger me
the most efficient means
to overcome one agony
is replacing it with another.
I don't mean to be blunt
but the force of trauma was the only lesson
I ever learned from love.
I will be a kick in the ribs
when what you needed was someone
to kiss it better.
Darling, I can see the seams
where your delicate dreams are knitting themselves
back together.
So please.
Don't offer me those parallel lines,
scar tissue rungs strung across your upper thighs,
the ladder you climb to escape
each personal hell.
Don't tell me the history of your body.
Describe the trajectory and delicacy
of stick-thin child limbs,
plaster walls elastically
absorbing the full weight of you
after mom had one-too-many gin nightmares.
You are porcelain
and these hands were tempered in concrete.
Your wings might be a bit bent (testament
to the turbulence they underwent) but
they are healing.
Don't tempt me to fix you.
I am a known breaker of broken things.
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