I read somewhere that the Japanese
mend broken objects
by filling the cracks with gold
and I thought I could turn that into a poem
about how someone might
mend a broken heart
by filling the cracks with love.
But every word got stuck
at the end of my fingertips,
and I realized my conscience
would not let me speak to the world words
as empty as any I have ever been given
from the mouths of boys
who never intended to stay
longer than it took for me to believe them.
What good will having gold poured into you do
when there are no cracks in your chest to fill,
only a heart whose only knowledge
of being loved
is a blank sheet of paper
stapled to a knowledge of being left
bruised and twisted
and dented and feeling like a fool
but never broken
because it has never been given the chance.
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