crumble, crack, break

you wake up every day and you do the best you can, right?
you do what you can in the time that you have, correct?

sometimes, when i try to pull my life back together, when the pieces are laying all around me on the floor,
when i pile them up and start to set them out in order, so i can glue everything back together,
sometimes, it just seems impossible.

this place will forever be a heap of broken promises.
it's piled high on the floor of my bedroom.

a stack of not-so-white lies is toppling over by the back door,
like pieces of paper, little contracts, little lies, little false hopes, teetering, ready to fall.

when i look out the kitchen window, there's a field of empty dreams
that i can see clearly, so far away,
wildflowers blowing in the wind, grass growing high.

in the attic is a web spun of wishes,
its gossamer strands swaying with the weight and age of the house.
it stays there in the shadows, the wood soaking up the tears and blood that surround it.

in a place like this you have to take those fragile, beautiful pieces of yourself and lock them away in a box.
you have to hide them and protect them, but not forget about them.

as the pieces fall off, i wrap them in little scraps of dreams and put them in a hatbox under my bed until i have the time and the space to glue them back on. sometimes i take them and string them by the window so that the light shines through.

when i return home, i can be that rag doll, pasted, scrapped, tacked, sewn together, the rough edges showing clearly.
i can sit in my hatbox, with the pieces of myself laying about, free to fall where they may.

when i am here, i have to sand everything down, so that the edges are smooth, glossy, pristine. i have to pretend i am whole, without cracks, splits, chips or dings.
i become hollow to survive. the outside is sparkly and fresh, while the inside is empty, starving, wasting away.

at home, i can sit in the sun and dry out, fall in the grass and break apart, melt in a pond and feel it all.

for now i am locked in the attic, with my broken pieces, spider webs, broken promises, lies, dreams and wishes stacked around me. i hold them close, pulling my rag-doll me tightly to my chest,
and i wait.