Most nights I’d imagine

how I’d open my skylight:

I wanted to mix the air outside

with the air inside my tight room.

On the first night you slept over,

you told me you’d break through

with a sledgehammer

thawing this room’s cold floors.

With one strike, you said,

we’d fall asleep with the stars

and wake up with the sun.

When you left, I cut my feet

on the constellations of glass

I grabbed each shard one by one,

my feet soaked in my own blood,

but this isn’t to tell you

about shattered windows.

I’m telling you: Gaudi

turned broken glass into art.

Grace P.Comment