save the platitudes
for the post-breakdown shower;
towel strewn on the floor,
steam suffocating common sense.
too little to soothe the hate.

stained glass reflects broken pieces
of our souls, a low hum
that ascends to screaming
before bursting, limp. the color
stands still, where the glass once was,
and attempts to rebuild it
more vibrantly, in rebuke
of the damage it barely survived.

and before anything else,
know it meant nothing,
means nothing.
arbitrary value assigned
by an unreliable narrator
who drafted this story
out of spite, boredom, and rage.

the ballpoint is sharpened
against the page and threatens
to tear it
like the stained glass,
like your bones.
like all of you.

maybe a poem will save you.