To some foreign culture I cannot clearly remember,
Breaking plates are considered good.
To us,
it is extravagance, a waste of good porcelain.
To me,
it is the beginnings of an aria I dare not sing to a live audience.
Every crash
Brings me back..
to fights
of voices, of tall mountains
their argument lost in the wind,
muffled by proximity,
the thundering within my ribs.
to moments I served my heart
on a silver platter
with it, the ideas of trust and loyalty
of fantastical feats of knights and maidens,
of oaths of eternal friendship,
of fairy godmothers offering protection-
then, had it returned mangled.
to a force
rendering me momentarily deaf
of a palm colliding on my cheek
as I spoke what is meant to be kept.
What was meant to be kept?
These shards tell me as I pick them carefully off the ground.