Just talking to myself again

Do you really want to go,
and stop saying goodbye to life's
manufactured meanings,
that can fracture so terribly
after breakfast?

After all these years, your
face in a shattered mirror, pieces of
your mind scattered in whatever direction
the wind is blowing today,
and tattered fragments of your heart you
would've held together, but--

to be forever alien
is to be alone with a mirror, no
comparisons made, no
friends to coax or chide, no
sludgy social judgments, no
reason to hold it all together, and
being shattered
has its rewards.

I know.

You can fashion friends
from a few pages of ancient history, and
life is a broken record anyway,
but I've seen the patterns you find in the mundane,
and some of your demons are damned hard to please.
They have your stubbornness.

Too     late     now.     Let go.
You're hanging.  We are all
always hanging, barely clinging
to anything more than
breath.     But it's too late now.  Just
loosen your grip a little--