Shattered Glass Sculpture

My feet bled from walking on the broken glass Bits of mirror, bits of cups, plates, and parts of my glass table I realized how much glass we had in our house Too much Why did we keep such easily broken things in a house like this Now it was all on the floor Some innocent pieces of wood were thrown into the mix They seemed out of place The splinters among the shards My shoes were on their way to a dump somewhere My clothes were in the laundry, waiting to be stripped of their new red color The hallway to my room had no glass The mirror in my room was untouched The only one not shattered The only thing not ruined by the sculptor But it looked out of place now So I took my fist I took my anger My grief My hatred My sorrow And I shattered that mirror, so it, too, would be as broken as the rest of us My knuckles bled; the red droplets painted the floor where I walked My feet left red footprints, so everyone would know I came back They would wonder why I would come back here And I’d tell them I came to see what has shaped us What is still shaping us Our sculptor is gone The sculpture is here… but in fragments