Broken

The Egyptians have
over fifty words for “sand”,
and the Intuits
have over one-hundred
for “snow”.
I crave their complex elegance
and eloquence
for the words they are able to use
because I have just one
to describe how I feel right now
but it’s a word you’ve already stolen,
claimed your own:
broken.
And I’ve read
that broken pianos can still play beautiful songs
and lovely melodies,
that broken clocks
can still tick,
even if the time is incorrect.
But there is nothing
that can save me from this
brokenness;
it is the way my voice breaks
when I say your name,
it is the way my bones break
from carrying the weight of your hand on my shoulder,
it is the way my heart breaks
when you tell me
“I’ve made mistakes”
but mostly
it is the way you break
your promises,
and in turn
break
me.

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