broken bits; human beings wonder if
we’ll ever be fixed enough to seem
like heartache is not unraveling
the seams we stitch to break our bonds
funny how we tie those knots
specifically to free ourselves;
and yet the prison remains.
we are cracked and chipped like pottery
the lumpy turtle kilned in third grade;
Pork Chop the pig named by pigtails
and all the in between.
And yet more perfect still are we
than over-fired pottery;
humans were made by divine hands
so no matter how we crush ourselves
we can always be repaired.