Smashing things up? 
 
That’s how I keep from killing you. 
 
From slitting a knife down the parting in your hair
like a cut-here line, 
and taking a hammer to your skull
and then looking down into the bloody mess that is your brain,
wires arranged all wrong, their ends frayed with static. 
 
I’d take out all the bad bits, reconnect and snip. Make normal. 
 
Would the face in your grave be the same? A shame, if not saved, because I’d like to do that for you. 
 
Instead,
an egg 
and a diary, a past torn to pieces.
Then a mirror. 
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