The windows of my soul

Are broken

Scattered through my body

like shards of glass

on a stone floor

I try to pick them up 

the blood running from my hands

But they break more

And cut deeper.

 

The blood coagulates now

Already knitting my hands back together

Years later they will ask

about the scars 

so visible in the light

I will brush them off

And fold my hands tighter.

I will hide from them

that I still flinch at the sight 

of the color red and

move a little more carefully

around glass.

 

The windows of my soul

may no longer be broken

but you will still see the places

they have been roughly mended,

the memories red and raw.

[R]