I wish I could say more,
But something inside me is broken.
A single act,
Thousands of people;
Each a knife in my heart.
I am angry, furious.
But their hate, their ignorance, cannot be mine.
I pick up the pieces
Each cuts me again as I pick it up.
My pain compounded.
It’s no wonder many choose to die
Rather than pick up the pieces.
But I can’t
I’ve been here before
I didn’t lose then, I won’t lose now.
My hands still bleeding I try to put things back together.
An impossible puzzle.
And with each time I turn on the news
It’s only more hate.
My hands slip again.
In pieces on the floor.
I stare down again at those shards.
Seeing some bright, some dull.
I pick up one of those bright pieces,
This time it doesn’t cut.
I almost smile – my first kiss.
Another, long talks with my grandmother.
Again, meeting my new friends.
For each bright shard there are a hundred more dull
Marred with blackness.
Piece after piece I pick up the bright
Abandoning the dull.
I sweep up those dark slivers and put them away:
This is a new life.
Time passes and wounds heal,
But the scars remain.
I hear someone comment, and I have to leave.
The news comes on again, and I begin to cry.
But if anyone ever speaks of that dark place,
Where they feel lost, and without hope.
Broken, without a chance of putting things back together,
I am there.
Sorting through the pieces with them,
Finding the bright ones, no matter how few.
And each tear I shed as an old scar reopens,
Is worth it.
So they don’t have to walk alone.