The sharp, piercing blade of your mouth
Shredded me to confetti
I was airborne. Torn.
Was it better to be scattered though?
Perhaps the pieces of me held together by comfortable glue
Were now going places.
Each tiny, fluttering scrap had eyes to see.
More vision than the old me.
And when this ache of being hacked up fades
All the tiny fragments will return to the fold
And I will be wiser, braver and bold.