Safety glass ice cape

Only a year and a half ago

I broke, shattered. An accident.

A bottle thrown awry, and then,

black safety glass glittered

scattered on the ground.

I swept it up, tried to hide it,

but it scattered over and over

cutting anyone who dared step near.

Glittering safety glass ice; cold, sharp.

I tried to live in a million pieces,

tried to put myself back together,

like I was before, tried to act

whole, okay, unbroken, a lie.

I didn't realize you can't return

to before,

you can't glue together

the oven door.

Then I let the glass fall, scatter,

a pile of deadly dark diamonds,

safety glass is still dangerous,

but I loved it, saw it's sparkle.

I stood up and danced

I frolicked in the glass,

felt the pain, felt the loneliness,

I watched my blood flow around

the crackling obsidian chunks,

pulled it to me,

adorned myself in shapes

dark, broken, sparkly.

Threw a cape of star-studded night

over my shoulders and twirled,

danced while the pain receded.

I can never again be unbroken

but I can remake myself

with the shattered bits,

every time, more beautiful

happier, freer, stronger, more powerful.