My heart of glass resides permanently
In my otherwise hollow chest.
It waits, patiently.
What does it wait for?
What is it longing for?
The shape of my heart isn’t the conventional look...
My heart is rough and delicate, and made of little tiny mirrors
That reflect my hideous soul.
The mirrors are the shatter pieces of my formerly broken heart, each one smaller than the next,
Depicting just how many times each piece was broken further.
The glass is beyond repair, remaining an overlooked artifact in the museum of my experience,
And many never spare a second glance.
The rare person, stops to examine the disaster.
They are moved by the sheer impossibility of its persisting existence, and take it into their caring hands.
But soon they throw in the towel, because they are tired of trying to repair the delicate pieces,
And that heart of glass is then forever gone, fallen in microscopic shards to the cold, hard cement.
And left to suffer the brutality of this world,
Is the empty bodice of that broken girl.