A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

They are fragile yet heavy, these broken 

pieces of me, and I hold them gently, 

here, in my outstretched hands,

hesitant to disturb your peace with my needs,

needs which already feel too much to me

(I can tell by the weight of their burden)

and I would wish to put them down, but I hold them,

waiting for you to notice them, right here,

holding them up to your gaze, 

hoping they will not anger you,

upset you, disgust you, cause 

a mess that displeases you. 

I wait, holding them out like an offering,

and I see your eyes pass over them without

the faintest flicker of recognition. I am patient. 

There are so many reasons 

you must be aware of their presence:

this kaleidoscope of pain catches the light,

my arms are shaking, struggling to bear this load,

as the crimson flush of awkward shame 

shades my cheeks, unmoved by the rivulets 

worn by tears. You are unaware, I realise, 

and though once I feared your reaction,

a constellation of new fears crystallise. 

I must be mistaken somehow. Perhaps 

these were not my pieces?

Or mine, but not broken? Or mine and broken, 

but neither heavy nor important? 

If our realities are so discordant, 

I must face the possibility

that I have lost my grip. Tiles slick with tears,

I am losing my balance, and losing my faith

that you will prevent my fall.  I don’t know

if I should leave the pieces here, uncollected 

mail at your door, collecting cobwebs, 

or attempt to carry them off somewhere 

and pretend I hadn’t been so foolish 

as to think they ought to be examined.