Into tiny shards of torn glass
I broke it.
It broke.
The passive voice makes me
little less guilty.
Glass breaks.
I knew that.
As fingers quiver
As branches sway
It is the wind that should be guilty
The scorch of the sun
Rising tide
Shaming wives
Not me

I don’t even care for tumblers
It was an heirloom
Or a birthday gift
Who cares?
It broke.
Into tiny shards of future.
Time grins at me.
It could even be the fault of glass
Why can’t it be stronger?
Against my finger!
Fingers are violent instruments
Glass should know that
These are tiny chips of guilt
Strewn across the floor
Ever waiting
To prick a foot
Invisible against the sun
Yet angry
I broke their home.
Their home was torn apart.


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