n e w - y e a r - n e w - m e

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everyone says

"new year, new me"

but why am I never changing,

always breaking?


I'm not the butterfly

breaking out from the cocoon

or the flower

rising from the ashes


i'm the wine glass

filled then emptied

for someone else's heart

before I'm smashed

into pieces

when I'm dropped,

and maybe I change

but only in the way

I break,

only in the way 

my pieces get smaller

until I can't gather them

in my arms

anymore

because they cut,

spilling blood

the same color

as the wine I was meant

to hold

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