By Zena Wozniak
I bottled a dream once:
I kept it in a glass jar until the day I threw it on my kitchen floor,
then watched as each glittering piece submitted into ruin.
And when I realized what I had done,
I collapsed into the middle of the whole mess,
and with bleeding palms, scraped all the pieces together again,
and swallowed them one by one,
hoping to contain, yet again,
the scattered beauty within;
simply to find that a broken dream
only makes you bleed on the inside
if you try to hold it in.