Breaking

I broke the sky
it was quite easy to break
it gave way under my hands like it had nothing to live for
in fact, I'm not so sure that I didn't just use my fingertips
it was quiet, the way that it cracked
it didn't erupt like a volcano awoken from its dormancy
like I thought it always would
in fact, maybe it was so soft so timid
yielding because it had already died
long ago
like the way that the light of burnt out stars are still reaching us
it wasn't until now about the sky do we finally know
so now I don't feel guilty
because I had only beaten a dead horse
but isn't it just as bad, or is it worse?
because now I just see the scars on not the sky, but myself
the blood is on my skin, not the sky's corpse
I murdered the sky, but the autopsy is of my body
and now I wonder if when I wanted to break the sky
I only wanted to break myself
but what gave way under my hands fruitlessly yielding
wasn't the sky, if it was me what then does it mean?
I sigh at the clouds, they still are alive
I failed my mission to break the sky
because it's too alive
and I failed my mission to break myself
because you can't kill what has already died.


-anna sluder

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