Before Kintsugi

Today

I'm made of glass,

and a small

crack

is

creeping

slowly

up

from one hand

towards the base

of my

neck.

When it arrives

will it bloom like a fungus

wrapping itself

gently,

lovingly,

tightly,

around my brain?

I have a growing suspicion

that

it already

has,

and

I am become a symbiote

living in the

precarious moment

where the crack

is a molecule's breadth

from shattering

the glass that I am.