knife in the screen
that covers your window
slicing it open
so you can crawl out
a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis
to find your place in the world.
in the middle of the night
in your boring suburban life
so you sneak out
not to meet a boyfriend
or girlfriend, no.
you sneak out
so you can wander
your best friend's woods
and wash your hands in the muddy stream
and cut your arms on branches and rocks
and walk barefoot until your feet itch
you slit your screen door
so you can have an adventure
one that doesn't involve anyone
and a broken screen.
It happened in an instant, the black android falling to the floor,
the screen shattering into a thousand tiny pieces that could never be put back together.
I rush to the black phone, hoping that I was just imagining the shattering,
my phone was the roughest, toughest phone in the south.
That old phone had survived being run over by a car by some miracle
the only damage in that case being a scratch.
Was falling off the couch really going to be what did it in?
Apparently, it was, as the screen looked as if someone had tap danced over it,
jabbing the edge of their heels into the screen with every turn made.
When I tried to turn the phone on, it seemed to work alright for a second,
before lines of every color went over the screen, blurring the image to the point
where I couldn't tell if it was the unicorn on my background or a warning sign flashing.
I tried to repair my phone the best I could, but to no avail,
it truly was broken.
Coming of age...
When i was 8,
my mother told me,
not to play with broken things
or else i'd get hurt.
When i turned 15 and broke my phone screen
she scolded me on not wanting to get it fixed
and even more so when i cut my finger on the glass,
as she carefully bandaged it up.
But when i left with you
and came home alone the same day;
my tear stained face,
smelling heavily of alcohol and coercion.
all she could do is hold me close
and gently bandage the wound
as i realized that her words
didn't only apply to inanimate objects.
Screens made of glass, fragile and delicate.
If yours isn't shattered then you're rather fortunate.
Every slight crack intertwined with another.
Shards of glass, but your scared to tell your mother.
For the fear that you'll be in trouble, or she won't understand.
No one around to hold your hand.
In a way, aren't we all a broken screen?
Just hiding our cracks so they won't be seen.
We try to hide the shattered glass.
We do our best just to pass.
In the end, life is mean.
And we're all just a broken screen.
All The Pretty Things
She collected apricot, plum, and cherry blossoms and arranged them on her laptop. She plucked and placed and stared, loving, smiling. They covered her screen so she could not see the manuscript eating her heart. They covered the errors, the potential, and the pooling time pond. They obliterated that which she could not face. So she went out and carefully she checked limbs and blooms, for the most lovely of things. And held them careful, in keyboard bruised fingertips. She smiled and couldn’t see, she was killing the trees.