I Might Be Made Of Glass, But That Doesn't Mean I'm Broken

This all feels so hopeless, so what am I doing here?

Why am I still living in this wretched, grotty fear?

 

Why am I human with lungs made of glass?

Not the smooth kind either, but the shards that don’t last.

The fragments that cut and bleed and scream,

The cruel biting ones that are laughing at me,

Self-depreciating pieces that chuckle in time,

With my meek self-esteem that will soon surely die.

Every breath I breathe, I feel it all crack,

One more scar, one more slash that I can’t take back.

 

Yes, darling, it hurts, but you know what they say,

About old glass that cracks every single day?

They say it’s melted to be new once more,

To birth winsome beauty for all to adore.

So don’t worry so much about your glass lungs,

Or glass heart or glass soul or their glass-shattering guns.

Because if that happens——and I’m not saying it will——

I’ll be your flame until your fearful heart is still, so still.

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