Fragile Instruments

There is a sadness

in my bones.

A dull ache

that appears 

and reappears,

like an old injury

when it rains.

It throbs

like my head does

when I hang upside down 

over the edge

of my grandmother's sofa.

I pour myself 

a cup of coffee

and read a love poem

to numb the hurt

I feel when I read

black headlines

in the morning sun.

When I smile,

I press my bottom lip

against the sharp edges 

of my teeth. 

Sometimes,

when I'm alone

and the air in the room 

is reserved only for

my paper lungs, 

I can hear the sadness 

rattle inside of me 

like the sound

of marbles

rolling against each other 

in a velvet bag,

and it's a sound so sweet, 

so achingly beautiful,

it hollows out

my bones

until they are nothing

but fragile instruments

of loneliness. 

I watched the news

this afternoon

and my collarbone 

snapped in half.