For when I feel broken, but can’t explain it well
Mikayla Renee
I am tired of being broken
but that is often how I feel
with pieces of me
lain in the ground
squandered and chipped
in sections as they were found.
Thought to be this one
but then to be that
of one and of the other
built differently, in fact.
Humble in stature
but not in style or flair
for the metal I am made of
is precious and rare.
People come to see it—
they gawk, they awe
and they stare.
Yet treasured and adorned
as my metal might come
it sits busted
in a garden patch
rusted—at night a shadow
in day collecting dust
mined from the earth
soldered and pressed
glued shut
framed into posture
the foundation removed
where the walls
split in two
and the pillars
even more—
grow rusted
and hollow
sitting twisted
broken, on the floor.