My heart is a temple
made out the same fragile stained glass found in a Catholic cathedral.
Delicate images, lining the walls inside, shrines filled with memories beneath. The one in the middle is dedicated to my parents all three
it started out golden, bejeweled, perfect my ideal image there was even space made should you gain a new family but you tainted it crimson made it imperfect with triviality and stubbornness.
Not realising Your silent tantrums and refusal to listen were the rocks that shattered the glass leaving cracks through in my relationships with others
the sheers that cut the bonds of delicate golden wires until only the chains of blood and paper was left all because you could not see I treasured you all equally.
And I tried my best mend The broken and keep the peace Now all I am left with is a broken glass portair whose shards leaves the deepest wounds through the cuts that appear as I make an attempt at repair .