The Old folks would always tell me look out for days like this.
The glass days, where even the slightest provocation could leave you shattered,
Where you become rigid from it all being too much for much too long,
When you can’t hide the hurt anymore and passersby see right through you.
The days where you wear an expression reading FRAGILE across your face and your eyes scream “handle with care”
But most people don’t read the label and that’s when glass days become the worst
When through a bump or mishap you find yourself thrown from the cabinet that you thought was your safe space or the mantle that you’d made your home.
And now your whole splits into fractions and your smooth round edges become jagged and harsh
Where you switch from a novelty to a threat lest you find all the pieces
But you never find all the pieces…at least not in my experience.
Every break leaves a piece of you lost.
That’s what I hate the most about glass days.
They always take a piece of you with them,
And when you manage to pull yourself together you see the pain reflected in you,
Chips and fractures that tell the tale of rough days gone by,
Every smudge and fingerprint a tale of neglect
or hands unkind.
Yes. That’s what the old folks would tell me.