Pieces of me fall–
scattered like shards of mica
reflecting salty ocean, pine needles
the smell of green tea and tan skin.
They lie there on the ground waiting
to get stepped on, crunched, eaten up
by a monster called time,
and spit back out again.
At the whim of the rocks and stars
they are vulnerable
even to the gentle violence of padding feet
and are far too receptive
to resemble any shape of their own.
They have such little direction,
and a minute sense of agency.
Yet these pieces can’t help but reflect
the truth to everyone who picks them up.