ten tin soldiers

nineteen years // how i fell apart

I often wonder

If your mother is proud of you

(I hope she’s not)

and if she still would be 

if she knew the things you’d done? 

Taking a glass ornament- fragile, beautiful, delicate

And casting it against the ground

Leaving shards and fragments

Too sharp for anybody to touch

Did you tell her that? 

Or did you say

You hadn’t touched the ornament

It had rolled off the shelf 

And broken itself

And you were cut when you ran from the mess?

Do you look back 

On how you let the shards lie 

And regret it? 

Or do you simply look at yourself

And think the ornament deserved it 

I often wonder if you are proud of yourself

Where you are in life

(I hope you’re not) 

and if you ever think about

the things you’ve done? 

Casting something so fragile down

Just to watch it shatter? 

Author's Note

october 2016- REALLY not a fan of this one. no cohesion in paragraphs, poor metaphor.