It Is a Story

Sitting in the frigid chapel every Wednesday morning, Three hours of numbing speech and staring up At fragmented glass and intricate light. Talk of people peeling themselves apart, Shattering themselves from bridges over water. The boy found unconscious in the cemetery A trail of clothes and paracetamol packets. People plummeting through water and onto tracks Used to flow through my dreams, cracking the surface of sleep. Today only the icy weight in my chest and nausea To hear words unfaltering spoken of broken things; Abusive fathers, prisoners, strangled toddlers, Scissor stabbed hands and insects creeping beneath the surface of skin. But we sit in the chapel And clasp our hands Against the cold. I tell myself, It is a story Or something seen through distorted glass.