i always begged the universe to view me like a flower,
"i'm delicate, please care for me."
but, i think, at some point i became
just a thorn-covered stem.
i clung so desperately to the ideals
of being soft-spoken;
warm and bright,
soft to the touch.
but, her gaze is cold,
and patience has run out.
the shattered mirror reflects
anger, and,
resentment, and,
loss.
the sun has finally set,
so i'm stuck
stumbling around my room
tripping over memories,
or maybe just glass,
piled up on the floor.
i can't lift myself up.
there's blood on my hands,
and, every now and then,
i come to the realization
that is it my own.
