I am a broken glass
You know, girls are like porcelains. Like the doll that they are, polished, beautiful and fragile. I’m more of a broken glass. I’m in pieces, sharp and well, broken. Broken glasses hurt people that’s why nobody goes near them. If they do, it’ll be too shattered to fix that they sweep the broken pieces up to discard.
I’m a discarded broken piece of glass. I’m transparent but inside I’m vulnerable. I’m hard on the outside but not any more because a glass can only hold so much pressure. You could say that I topple myself over and break my own heart from the choices I’ve made. But I knew when I saw my own pieces on the floor every night that I can never piece them back whole again.
While I’m distracted trying not to shatter, you saw me broken. Unlike porcelains, I’m not pretty. I am chipped, not chiselled. I’m plain, not decorated. I take no shape from the world, I am my own solid being. I live for a purpose and not just aesthetics. I thought I would scare you away or make you take a broom to sweep me off.
I am dangerous, yet you took the sharp broken pieces with your bare hands. While I try not to let another piece fall, you’re trying to fix the ones on the floor. Sometimes you hold everything together, even the unbroken ones. On bad days, the broken glasses you’ve somehow fixed, shatters again from the inside out, like a bullet shot through. You’ll sigh, nonetheless, pick them up again and glue them back to me.
Until the day when I can hold myself up again, thank you for holding me up. You could’ve chosen a beautifully crafted porcelain but you didn’t. For that, I love you with all the broken pieces that I have and all that’s left of me.