Glass in His Hands
Being this close to him
turns my body to glass;
fragile, in his hands.
My fingers tremble
despite attempts to steady them.
His voice, his face—
makes my chest ache.
My body yearns for his kiss,
his arms secure around me.
Then I remember,
every promise,
every lie.
I remember every time
I opened my heart,
only to be crushed
in his hands.
Sadness steals my words
like his hands over my mouth.
Tightening the grip
around my throat.
His hands shatter my body,
like glass.
Jagged pieces of my glass heart
fall to the ground.
Crystal tears
gather in my eyes.
I don’t let them fall.
I know the cost of letting him see
me weakened in his hands;
he will only leave more scars.
His hands shatter me
like glass.
2 thoughts on "Glass in His Hands"
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I like the repetition and turning of the “glass” metaphor, love “Jagged pieces of my glass heart”
Intense. I feel the crush, the jagged pieces cutting, the sharrp shards piercing. I can see blood and pain. I feel your heart open. I agree with Shaun. I love blown glass, in fact glass is amazing, but I learned the hard way, no part of my heart should be so delicate. I’ve been trying for 50 some years to make it beautiful and durable. I admire the beauty of the hand-blown you.