my heart
assembled in
crystalline flesh
made of garnet.
a rich man's
faucet,
pumping blood instead
of water.
each breath like
the tinkling of
glass windchimes
outside the door to
my apartment.
my heart.
but blood flows
too red.
the world is not ready
for maroon.
i am expected
to shatter
my garnet,
and replace it with
gold,
cold and unfeeling,
easier to manage.
replacing the semi-precious with value.
gold
will always be worth more
than a semi-precious stone.
maybe it's better
if i replace my blood with ichor,
and bleed gold,
becoming my own midas
and turning myself to gold
in order to sell myself off.
gold is worth more than garnets,
and so i shatter my heart
and reassemble it with veins of gold,
just the way they wanted me to,
filling my arteries
with artificial value.
i'll shine
for you
the way i'm
supposed to.
Vases, Pottery, Kintsugi.
The Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold.
It comes out more beautiful than before but
The cracks will forever remain.
I like the honesty of this.
It makes me think about human beings.
And about myself.
Kintsugi.
There is something very strange about being hurt by hands that are not yours.
You're used to your own self-inflicted pain.
You are used to just how bad it will feel, how little you will break from the familiarity...
It's almost comforting.
It chips away at you, yes, but it doesn't matter
Because the hands are yours
And you are finally in control of something within your whirlwind life,
Whirlwind thoughts
And that's all you ever wanted.
But when another's hands do this...
Touch what they were not allowed to.
We are all pottery.
You and I.
Whether because we were made by some faceless creator or simply because we are inherently quite fragile, whether we believe this or not.
Whether glass, clay, cement..
Pottery.
Breakable.
So when the hands of another reach out to hurt,
It doesn't take away a chip this time.
Because that is too gentle and no human hurting another human does so with minimal damage.
I've spent many years breaking myself and putting myself back together.
Perhaps a parent or stranger says or does something - a piece pops out and I try to force it back in place.
But you?
I kept the pieces in place just enough.
They tried to fall apart that ink-black night but I wouldn't let it.
Their work had to be done.
They desired to be proud of themself, to feel like they had done a good thing and
I wasn't about to risk further shattering by telling them any different.
I'd tried..
I gave up soon enough.
I don't remember when I let it all crumble.
It feels like such a long time ago,
Even as the memory seeps into my mind and draws crimson along jagged edges.
But I promise you, I broke.
I promise you I did so where and when they wouldn't see.
Because I had to have some bit of my dignity kept intact, right?
Even if it had all been stripped away already.
They shattered my little, fragile vase while theirs stayed
Intact.
And I was alone to pick up the pieces.
As I always have been.
Perhaps as I always will be.
When I went to ask for help,
My parent was insistent that there was some good in it.
That I must have learnt something.
No comfort, just...
A promise that this experience...
Those hands...
Had at least strengthened my vase.
I don't know if that's true.
It still falls into little pieces every time I think about those...
But in the spirit of a year gone by,
In the spirit of love for my parent despite their utter lack of understanding for the help I needed,
I will tell you what I've learnt.
I have no one else to tell.
Your vase is in your hands.
It is yours, it always was.
I was so scared to be violent.
I suppose years of acting the part of domicile, obedient child couldn't disappear in that moment.
I could sniff blood in the air -
One wrong move and I feared they would go for my neck.
I should have made that move anyway.
Maybe then my vase wouldn't be as broken as it is, now.
But I keep fixing it.
Gold to jaded edges.
I do it with kindness because no one else did.
I do it on my own because I realised that it is my vase and mine alone.
And no one could ever care for it and everything within it as much as its owner.
Do you understand what I'm telling you?
I've had that vase many years.
I chipped away at it so many times, certain it wasn't good enough.
But the world is full of too many kinds of owners, flawed despite their desire for perfection
For me to hold onto that anymore.
Take care of your vase as best you can.
It needs you more than you know.
And if your instinct gives you a way out that will hurt another,
Don't let your pottery break even further if you can help it.
As a good owner,
Sometimes it's okay to give someone else's vase some cracks too
If it will save yours.
I will no longer fill you with cobwebs, darkness and iron-tanged burgundy.
Flowers, dreams and poetry sound much more fun, don't they?
Kintsugi.
I'm trying.
Onwards we go.
Heartsmith
Here, gimme your heart.
You've got a crystal one? Nice. Special. Easily breakable.
I'll fix it.
You could say I'm the blacksmith of hearts. Heartsmith?
Shattered crystal heart, you give me
Your love, your soul, your trust
Dripping, molten gold
Veins of glue,
My hand wraps around the glass
The colors warped and gorgeous
There,
Good as new!
Don't go shattering your crystal heart again.
King of Nowhere
Shattered crystal heart,
Reassembled with veins of gold.
Turning pain to art,
Revisiting stories already told.
As it beats on a sad, forgotten tune,
Something that has been so old but feels so new
As I clutch this wounded heart,
I don't know where to start
Sitting on a throne I rather not own
Which chips away at my heart as I suffer alone
The shattered crystal heart of golden veins
Beats out one saying again and again,
"I am the king of nowhere,
Of the lands no one cares.
Of the people who were forced to come
Or else they wouldn't dare"
My crystal heart bleeds gold as it beats out like a melancholy drum
Pyrite
How many time can you reassemble a shattered heart? I’ve done this so many times for you that the veins are no more. The shattered pieces have be melded. So many breaks and tears and repairs. The veins become gold overlay. The outside shines like a new penny. And the inside is hollow and echoes of your memory. A cavernous void shrouded in pyrite. No one would suspect the crumbling interior with such a beautiful crown.