Pseudopsychosis.

A thousand shattered pieces
on a sticky lino floor
sour, red liquid seeping into the worn rug’s edges
No.
That’s not me.

A balled-up fist 
on a bruised cheekbone
blood trickling out between broken teeth
No.
That’s not me.

A child waiting, alone
in a dark closet
rocking back and forth, to quell his fear
No.
That’s not me.

I
breathe
claw
crawl
walk
run
jump
soar
– yes, that’s me,
and as long as there is life in me, kindness in others, and goodness in this world,
I shall not be 
broken. 

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