I was cold, like glass, when I was young, fragile enough that my sign was ‘Do Not Touch.’ I made love, it wasn’t a mutual exchange, not to her, them, but my head told me otherwise.
One, managing to chip that glass, reached in, ran her hands over my smooth surface, and I cracked under her touch. I broke into a thousand pieces with her and when she left, I gathered up all that I could, pieced myself back together, swore that it would not happen again.
I am sure that there are pieces of me still scattered over this world.
Now, though, there is not as much of me as there had once been, and I hold what’s left all the more closely.