Break in the soul

Skeletons break, don't they?

Creak under pressure,

Bow beneath the excess weight of failure.

Bones...they break, don't they?

They break in an ugly way,

Marrow exposed to cold air and flesh pierced

In a way that requires metal rods and screws

And blood-soaked gloves to resemble

Something normal

But it never really is again, is it?

Bones, skeletons, they break beyond fixing.

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So does the soul snap beyond repair?

Does it break in unfixable ways

That pierce through the chest

Or does it fragment like burst glass in the eyes?

Maybe it doesn't break at all

But withers into something small and vanishes

Without a trace.

No.

That isn't it at all.

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No, it breaks because something has broken in me

That can't be fixed.

The marrow of my mind is exposed to air from this...

Complex break in my soul.

It can be screwed together again, I am sure.

But it will ache when the rain comes.

It will never be right no matter how many skillful hands

Glue the pieces back together.

It will never be right.

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