The Bloodied Bowl

I am a worthless speck.

My actions have no meaning.

Sleep is transitory, and I have grown accustomed to

the sharp pain of a starved body.

I am as fragile as mom’s favorite ceramic bowl.

On the rustic wooden hutch, it sits in glory.

Holding potpourri

within its smooth walls, the dead flowers safe, secure.

Oh tragedy! If it were to be smashed —thousands of miniscule pieces.

My shattered being – a shadow – a prized bowl.

I am not on a pedestal, nothing more than that bowl.

But everyone tells me, “You’re good enough.”

They don’t know how it feels,

to feel nothing at all.

To waste space, breathe precious oxygen.

Happiness scoffs at my misery,

sadness scorns me for dwelling in it.

I am hollow, but that ceramic bowl is full.

It holds the remnants of life, beauty in a deathly domain.

Perhaps that is how my contribution will be acknowledged —

in Death’s deep, dark folds.

The bowl is in my hands.

It slips. Falls. Bleeds upon the tile.

Petals scatter, shards cut, feathery skin rips.

This is how it has to be.

By Perry Bower