I have a glass heart. 

Perhaps you fancied my mysterious elegance, or my earnest simplicity. "You're special," you said. "You have a shine in you that others don't." 

I do not know what happened after that. 

Maybe my reflective surface got to you, and it irked you too much to see yourself reflected back. Maybe it was my fragility — my demand to be held carefully, overwhelmed you. I could not help it, though. All those questions, outbursts, and tantrums every night were all because I was constantly afraid. For what does a glass heart fear more than being broken one day? 

After all, you were the one who told me that broken things never return to the same wholeness they once had, that they never stay the same once they're shattered. "It would be impossible to glue back the smallest pieces together," you added with a saddened tone. There was truth in your words. Something in your tone told me you understood. At least, that's what I thought.

You knew all those things — but you broke me anyway. 

I once had a glass heart. 

Now all I have left are fragments you shattered. 

- ℐ

(12•03•20)

(A/N: Going for an impromptu prose for this update, since I have no time to choose from my old poems.)