Sliding the statue

I break the statue, your favorite-
a woman of full white marble, grapes dangling to her lush lips
you wash it with the back of your hand, like it is nothing
sweep around the dust, it is normal
the joy of destruction teaches me
to drag my feet,  after the words repeat themselves,
a beehive on a tree
guilt

I carry inside of me
a stone-weighing head,
a loud drum for a heart
and the statues arms, the other cavities
I shove with my foot beneath the carpet
I'll bury the crumples in the garden, a proper disposal

the life of a statue ends when mine stars
the arms nudge me, porcelain with long, lean fingers
if I were to fall, the stone will catch me
still- I am scared of choices, I admit
each time I choose, I realize I will
make way for one option to rule
I am weary of choice but each time I turn back
I see broken arms, dismantled and a woman who loses her head
rolling on the floor

I am haunted by my dread
words repeating in my head,
you approach me with the same haughty carelessness
you sweep the statues that keep breaking since
as long as you don't break things that cannot be restored, things dutifully not yours
you say. perhaps you are right
this is why I shouldn't be scared of my choices
not everything brings along guilt-
but that's the nature of children
they first embrace rebellion
then slide into regret.