Each pivotal moment, Each crucial scene, frozen in time, Buried deep beneath the protective membrane Of memory— Ice-glass sculptures of your former selves. The shapes, at equal turns horrific and exquisite, Displayed on cold metal pedestals in the locked basement Of the museum that rests inside your soul. The only rule—the only one— Before you leave that secret chamber, You must take a mallet and swing hard, Shattering the shape of who you were, And rebuild, with those same jagged pieces, a sublimated abstraction, Painted with the warm blood from the shards That slice your hands.