Refraction

I ask myself, “Am I still whole?”
I answer, “Cracks don’t cage the soul.”
I touch each fault, still warm, still mine,
I watch them pulse with borrowed shine.

I tell myself, “The dark just stays.”
I whisper, “Then it’ll light small ways.”
I walk on glass, it cuts, it stings,
I yet still hum, of gentler things.

I lift each shard, let edges gleam,
I trace the pain, the prism’s seam.
I whirr myself back into form,
I have weathered loss, and called it warm.