Break

 

Break

I break things.

I’m not careful or
graceful.

I thunder and plod.

I get bruises.

I get hurt.

I drop precious
declarations
and cry over the broken
shards.

There’s never enough glue.

I see to that.

So, don’t go in the
kitchen.

Not until I’ve swept it.

You’ll get cut.

I should probably mop too.

And vacuum.

Maybe I’ll just move.

Help me pack the plates?

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