The danger of writing a sermon:
If you are to wield it uncallously
You must grasp it by the blade
Till blood names you hypocrite
In the eyes of all

I wasn't broken
I wasn't injecting anything into my body
But myself
Wasn't some addict curled up down in the composting vomit like some ghastly pale fern frond.
No I was curled like a fist around a smashed beer bottle, about to turn a brawl into something primal. A tightrope act stretching between action and reaction.
Action: the jagged arc of glass that holds only the fizz of falling anger
Reaction: the drops of blood that fall, and fall, and fall and fall until the thin line line hits the floor. And those watching shake their heads, and blame the law... The police man for not stopping it before... And leave themselves comfortably discomfited at the door. Ignored.

I wasn't broken.
I wasn't breaking anyone's rules
But myself.
I wasn't.
I was not.

But I could have been.
I could have been wide and long and deep as an ancient wood. Implacable. Immovable. Sucking up the waters of life be they ever so deep, be the heavens dry, come what may, and what may come... Is this - a crowd to the one Man not hanging back, who came through the door, became the door, hanging forward like a lean in time. A gravity the pulls and pulls my confessions out... and onto him. And into him like a spear in the side. Till he could bear it no more.

 Because there was no more. No more to bear. But to bear him down into the earth like an ancient seed buried in my shallow soil. And deep dreams for could have beens  and should have beens, and the green I know would grow if only I wasn't broken.

I wasn't broken
But he was.
And now the doors i locked are thrown open