the long walk

I was never quite broken
but I too, know how to pick the pieces up
some days the pieces are all teeth,
pulled from the mouths of children
other times they are flowers being picked by a fist,
a book, searching in itself

I have carved shelves out of my heart
to try and bring an order to things.
all it did was make space

some days I walk nine paces
turn and fall ten
walk nine paces turn and fall
I die every single time

the whistle of the train train is a hospital
it is ebbs with the sounds of dying and fixing
it turns every wheel inside of me
into a fire
turns every wheel into splinters

my belly is filled with cedar wood
there is sawdust still on the floor
I have been sweeping it up for so many days of my life
but each day I sweep up a little bit more
one day my floor will be clean

I clench my hands into fists in case I run into myself
I have something I want to give them

I won’t know what it will be until they are standing before me

I have taken the bones out of my body
and carved temples from them
look under my nails
there is nothing but dirt
I do not know what means
but some hours are spent
doing nothing but staring at the tips of my fingers

hold a mirror up to what I once was
you would see only guitar strings,
shimmering in the light

how I shone