Fractured Glass

 Fractured Glass

My mind is like a sheet of perfect glass. It's clear, shiny, lets in the sunshine. Hung smartly in a beautiful frame, it's almost picturescque. Calmness and gentleness, the man I used to be.

At some point I let my guard down. I stopped protecting that pristine sheet of glass from the constant rocks and stones.

And I sit here, a fractured mind. The pieces fall and slice everything on their way to the inevitable dusty floor. Slicing my soul, chopping my thoughts, and killing what little I thought of myself. Each shard digging into a different part of my being, cutting and slicing like a trained butcher.

So now I sit on the dusty floor, surrounded by the jagged edges of what was once me. The doctors treat my wounds, but nobody attempts to put that pane back together. Someone who tries will only cut their fingers or worse, so I sit alone. Bleeding out from every cut. Nothing left to live for, I await certainty in the quiet, as the dark envelops me with its cold fingers.

A sheet of glass, waiting to be swept up and put in the trash. That's me.