by GABE ANDERSON - August 30, 2021
I held a vase.
A vase with a complex design.
I analyzed its colors.
I analyzed its lines.
I ran my fingers across its surface.
At first, the vase felt smooth.
As my hand got closer to the top,
The vase no longer soothed.
It was grainy.
It was rough.
It was harmful.
It was unloved.
There was no color.
There was no care.
It was violated.
It needed repair.
I needed some tools.
I needed some paint.
I hurried towards the supplies
And I dropped the vase.
I watched it fall.
It was like a flash.
It shattered into small pieces.
I had no chance to react.
I stood there silent.
I saw what I had done.
I scooped up the pieces—
My hands dripping with blood.
I needed to fix it
I needed to fix it
I needed to fix it