the wine glass met its demise with a bang and a tinkle.
(terror and wonder, always holding hands.)
sharp words now a lump in her throat.
(fragility cowers behind the skirts of sacrifice.)
shards like butterfly wings cradled in her palm.
(why must we be break ourselves before we can be free?)
Thanks for reading. Please clap, follow me or enjoy another poem.
🐝 beth
