Handle me with care, for I'm fragile to a fault. An open bleeding wound and everything is a single grain of salt.
Niagara in capacity for the years I can produce. Creating oceans ten times over... capsizing ships with every move.
The water calls me to it, but I cannot face the waves. Jumped in to face my fears, but I still drowned all the same.
And while I've got my father's temper... I have my mother's patience. A high threshold before I blow; like a bomb under a blanket.
For I am a haven. I am safe and warm, and a balm for the burns of your sins. Kissing your scars just in case you, too, are super sensitive.
And I'm just the glass child, the porcelain doll, the ballerina in a music box. Unmistakably breakable and oh, so unattainable... because of the inevitable drop.
Where shards of me would splinter and this winter would only grow so much colder. Pieces of me missing, except for the never ending nonexistent, always absent chip on my shoulder.
The glass child grows old. Aged glitter inside of the snow globe makes a permanent starry sky. Every one wished upon in a prayer to grow strong... But glass remains glass all the time.