My love for you is delicate; not delicate like a flower, but delicate like glass. I say it's like glass because every time you leave, it chips and cuts me. I love you so very much, but in the end, it always hurts me. My love is like glass because one wrong grip, and it'll slip from ur hands, but you won't hear it break; instead, I'll feel the shards pierce through my heart. But it's ok, you didn't mean to drop it, you didn't realise your poor grip on my love, and that's ok, I'll pick up the pieces and forgive you anyway. But sometimes there's just too many pieces, and my hands are bleeding too much, trying to clean up the mess. Sometimes, it's hard to forgive you, and I'll turn the shards into knives, but I never wanted to cut you. Just keep you away until the wounds have healed. I wish my love was more like flowers, soft, beautiful, and a wonderful smell. We could bask in the sun and watch as they grow, and when they wilt, we'll work it out, feed it more, and admire the beauty of which we created. But my love is not like flowers. It's cracked glass, on a ledge, waiting to break. And I'm sorry if the shards cut into ur hands, I'm sorry if they turn to knives and cut at your heart, I'm sorry for whatever blood I may draw with my love for you, but just know that it's hurting me too. I love you.
YOU ARE READING
The World That Is My Mind
CasualeThis is a series of short drabbles bout things I experience and feel that could be relatable to others. Still not sure if these could be classified as stories or poems or whatever else you want to call them, so u as readers can decide for yourselves...
