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
Copyright © Brooklyn Cruz | Year Posted 2017
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