Shattered Things Poem by Amy Whittlesey

I come from a line of shattered things
and throw away paper planes that flew for a moment
from steadfast sadness acres over

it’s hard enough to grieve alone
harder still when you find the truth and
then, freeze frame, you’re stuck

and you can’t move on with the official
story because it doesn’t make sense anymore
you can’t just bury it like your dead cat in

the yard and plant colored tulips all round
to make it pretty-no, it casts a shadow over everything
you see, and everything you do

death, that is-real death, not the lovely, tearful kind from war
movies with soundtracks-No, it’s the cyclonic kind
that leaves a wild rash on your soul

and never stops itching until you tend to it’s secrets;
that knowing detains your brain and harnesses your heart
you dare not speak as your words make colossal bulwarks

crumble into dust, thundering and blasting what remains
until the lies begin once again to build
and shatter things