Wineglass

Sometimes I feel like a wineglass,
Shattered to pieces on the cold tile floor.
I pick up my pieces, shiny and sharp,
They draw pricks of blood from my shaking hands.

I put the pieces back together,
Matching the pieces like a bloodied puzzle,
I grab a box of plasters, their warm toned fabric putting my mind at ease,
I use them to hold the glass together,
Trying to keep the shards combined.

I pick up the bottle with my bloody, shaking hand,
I pour more wine into my glass that now is broken and dripping.
I watch as the streams of red fall from the gaps and cracks,
The plasters growing dark red as the wine spills out, the glass falling apart once again.

Sometimes, I feel like the wineglass,
The red liquid falling from the cracks in my porcelain, my skin.
I am forced to pick up the pieces once again,
As the ruby red blood spills from my shaking hands.

I don’t think the plasters will stop it this time,
I don’t think the shards, sharp and thin, want to stay together, not this time.