You punched me once.

A normal hit,

One that should have bruised

Or maybe cracked a rib.


But you forgot that I am paper,

That someone took my flesh and blood

And left a cutout.


Your hand passed straight through,

Tearing my parchment organs apart,

Papyrus bones shattering into dust.

And we both stopped —

You couldn’t even look at me

Just pulled back,

Shreds of pulp clinging

As you fled the scene.


I took shoji

And did my best to cover up

The you-shaped cavern in me.


Now you’re back,

And the every-day way

You move your fingers

Looks just like

Your fist

Going through




The only thing I know for sure

Is that you’re broken

And I’m broken

And I wanted us to touch each other

And see the broken bits

And make kintsugi out of them,

Create Beauty out of Broken.


But you broke me instead.