My fingers trace your cracked edges,
feeling your engravings, etchings, and chipped paint.
Gold flecks sprinkle the ground
as I pick you up from the floor in pieces.
I do not care if you are broken,
porcelain shards spanning the universe,
Perfection left in oblivion.
Damage is painful, and yes, it does hurt.
When I pick you up, you cut me too.
My blood mixes into your rough edges,
where it becomes glue for your brokenness.
But my hand is shaky, and my glue sub-par
as I try to fit you together again.
Yes, I can glue you together, “fix” you maybe
but you cannot be perfect.
As a dream you are embryonic,
As an idea, you are still developing,
Perfection left in deception.
Damage is daunting, and yes, it is scary.
I’m afraid I won’t be good enough for this.
My fears make me tremble, insecure,
as I compile you into one.
The imperfection you refuse to let me see
I see it in the use and abuse you carry.
Don’t you see mine when I scream, cry,
pretend to smile on the outside?
As our eyes meet for that split second,
we are afraid, confused, excited, intrigued,
Perfection is forgotten.
But all I can ever be is the musician
Soul enveloped in the keyboard.
Emotions locked away in her heart,
Confidence stripped away by fault.
My sliced-up hands, from wounds from another,
and broken spirit, lashed to death by hate.
I need bandages on my hands, and time to heal,
But time is something so scarce for you and I.
Time is something that is priceless
something I cannot afford any longer,
Perfection is impossible.
The emptiness I yearn to bury
and the passion within I wish to ignite,
are questioning my very self.
Threatening my security.
Damaged things are beautiful.
But I am more damaged than you.
I cannot save you, nor can you save me.
So what will happen now?