Kintsugi Illusions

I practiced the art of kintsugi.
I wanted to believe in flawed beauty,
that I could repair my cracks,
upgrade my broken bits
with veins of gold.
The paint never dries.

I wrapped the butchery
with gauze and illusion.
Adhering my mask,
hoping for my pound of  pretense
like so many layers of mummified sludge.

Your fisted flesh inside me
scraped my resolve.
My bandages slipped,
exposing my deception.

You manufactured 
the distance between us,
calculating the cost of repairs
for my faulty engineering,
The right angles wronged.

The paint, blighted and bitter,
Pipes had been cut.

I forgot to read the manual.


Find it here.