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Poetry

The dinnertime glassware

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I am angry. The fury of life is enraging me. I have six glasses in my kitchen cupboard. Deliberately the thickest glassware you can buy in hope that the children don’t smash them every dinner time.

I want to take one and hold it tightly in my hand. It would fit so nicely in my hand. I want to get a good grip and then throw it against the wall. I want it to smash to pieces. Then I want to get the next glass and do the same, up until the last glass has been smashed.

I want to find the most beautiful piece of smashed glass. Do you know which would be the most beautiful piece? The one that has the rim intact and forms that perfect triangle with a sharp point.

I want to take that sharp point and cut into my arm. I want to see the colour of my blood. Is it dark and stained? Is it abnormal? What is there inside of me? I want to see. I want to see what makes me so disgusting that it has led to everyone hurting me. Abandoning me. I want to see what is wrong with me. What is wrong with me?

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