Chris Taylor


My Broken Piece

A hidden piece that I keep out of sight
Like a present that I have just received and carelessly broke.
I turn my gift, as not to face it towards eyes that can see.
In the bottom of the trash I laid the shard of my shame.

Every night I rest my head on a pillow of apprehension.
Deep in waste I place the fragment hoping to stay concealed
And every morning that piece is deposited at my feet.
I can not run and my mask is transparent and not opaque.

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