She is beautiful.
It’s true she is like a vase.
As beautiful broken,
As she is complete

But I cry as I realize,
That someone ELSE,
Will be the one to take all of the pieces,
And just throw them away.

It should be my job,
To fix what is broken.
To fix the vase that is still so beautiful,
Though Broken.

Leave it at that?
Should I continue,
To walk away too ashamed to look back at my mess.
Or keep my eyes trained?

I know what to do.
But should I even try?
Should I get my hands dirty and cut by each piece of vase,
I think not.

So I walk away.
I put my head down,
And continue with my shameful eyes trained to the ground.
And I walk.

I walk in circles,
Hoping to reach conclusion.
I think until my body feels numb and the wind chill begins to cut my skin,
Ever so gingerly.

I walk again,
Until I come to the trash,
I dig around until I come to a single piece of vase tinted red with blood.
I hold it in my hand.

I continue to dig,
And I continue to dig,
Until my hands become bloody and gashed, covered with mistakes.
Still I continue.

The pieces of this vase,
Are precious to me.
It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t want to be put together.
I want her whole.

I want to see her.
I want to hold her.
Why she can’t be whole is difficult to answer and I don’t know the reason.
But I could do my best.

If it isn’t right,
If I cant figure it out,
How to put this beautiful vase, this beautiful heart back together,
Then I will walk.

What most don’t know,
When it comes to this,
Is that the vase has to WANT to be put back together.
Not just those repairing.

So until I know,
I find myself walking.
My eyes are to the ground shamefully hoping that people don’t see me.
Thinking of her…