As an empath, I feel all the things. It can be overwhelming. I don’t know how not to feel things, even if they start to consume me. Making things helps. Being creative helps. Writing helps. This poem is one of the outpourings of the healing process.

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There is no point

In wishing

For a shatter glass

To be reblown.

It could never fill

The same space

Before the cracks

Began to show.

The only chance

To salvage all

The splintered shards

Is to collect

The scattered pieces

Into something

New and different

That can be whole.