You could bind the canon in skin, or parchment.But the truth was on pottery shards. The inconsequential.                  We are most honest when unprepared. Struck truthful                  in a moment of terror, without pen or paper. Write faster.Terror is always forthcoming. Like pressure on a specific point,which trickles outwards to reveal our honest faults. Splinter here.                  My people invent kintsugi. Less a technique and more a faith.                  Faith: that form erupts magnificent from the broken thing. Scar paint.We are helpless in the face of confession. In her upturned chin,begging, “Admit. Admit you need me. Admit you need love.” I split.                  In the way the broken vessel is helpless to pour. No matter                  how much it tries to hold itself to a standard of function. Spill out.Gather up your dreams. Gather up the things you have named “dreams,”which are just the chipped plates of your dropped stars. Don’t cry.                  Did you know tears are sieved blood? Spit, too. We are just                  one leaky vessel trying to keep everything in. Keep trying.