Bleach

A broken heart deforms in seconds.

Shards of deeply rusted glass shatter

all over the kitchen floor, like a

mason jar dropped by young, sticky

fingers.
The jar leaves a stain on the checkered linoleum

that no amount of bleach could remove.

It’s not a pretty shape, not even a satisfying

blob. At least if it were a blob there would be

a reason for such discomfort.
Instead, there are faint speckles of brown

scattered around the edges of endlessly black

eyes, like freckles that crinkle when you smile,

except. Except that you don’t smile, not at this

messy, broken jar.
Your freckles do not exist. Your skin is clear

of blemishes, except. Except that a heart is symbolically

symmetrical, so if there is just one half of a heart, shattered

like a dropped mason jar on his pristine linoleum checkerboard,

then somewhere. Somewhere within the dusty attic, wedged

between cobwebs of ghosts so old that they haunt themselves,

is another broken jar that scattered brown around

an up-‘til-then clean face. For, somehow, I have freckles.

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