Maybe I started with a broken scale

the beginning of this piece's process

I knew in the beginning
I wasn't worth it.
I knew where we were
on the scale of inequality
all toppled in your favor
and leaving me dangling
high and scared to
fall.
I tried to even things out.
Filled myself with wishes and hope
(dangerous weapons of the heart)
to try and weigh myself down.
(I've never been good with sharp objects)
And I kept hurting myself,
the faintest puddle of blood
(don't look down)
beginning to stain the ground
below my hanging juggling act
and I kept working
with the only tools I had.
(perhaps if I...)
These blundering hands and
fumbling heart
proved to be instruments not
worth their thrift store price tags,
never quite producing the
polished results they promised,
and instead smashing not thumbs and fingers
but bits of me that didn't bruise,
bits of soulspark tinkered with one too
many times by hope's hammer,
that won't ever be whole
(hole)
again.