Everything we used to be crept inside blue mason jars

stacked in a home that became a house. Our thin skin hardened, all tough:

we picked at scabs, knowing they’d become scars.

We turned on the lights, our eyes lost constellations and stars

as we rummaged through whose is what, as we exchanged stuff:

everything we used to be was packed inside blue mason jars.

We removed all signs of We Are’s,

tore down condensed walls of weary huffs and worn-down puffs;

we picked at scabs, knowing they’d become scars.

What was ours

was no longer enough:

everything we used to be was locked away in blue mason jars.

Our words hurt, but their weight broke down the bars

of a mottled hope, which time has ravaged and made rough.

We picked at scabs, knowing they’d become scars.

We drove off in our separate cars,

our minds decided, our baggage divided and graffitied with scuffs.

Everything we used to be was labeled and shipped in blue mason jars

because we had to pick at scabs, knowing they’d become scars.