The Glass I Did Not Break

Today, I broke a glass.

I was holding it in the grip of my hand

which I thought was firm,

until it slipped.

My mother heard the clash and scolded me,

pointing out how reckless I had been.

Yet in spite of her reproof,

she still told me not to make any move.

She ordered me to jump onto the nearest couch
as agile as possible,

without stepping on the floor;

because she was afraid that my feet would step on the pieces of broken glass,

sharp enough to make me bleed.

Later, she picked up the mess I made all by herself

while insisting that I should not even bother helping,

as it would involve the risk of danger and pain

—and she doesn't want me hurt,

at all.

At that moment, I knew.

I knew that you were the exact opposite of my mother.

Unlike her,

you were always prudent with your sweet words,

as if never disagreeing with anything that I do.

I thought it was because you loved everything that I did,

that you wouldn't mind

even if I dropped something off my hand,

like what I did with the broken glass. 

But it turned out that

you wanted to see me hurt.

You wouldn't care
if the pieces of shredded glass cut my soft skin

and let piles of blood burst out through the wound,

or if I don't have any shoulder to lean on from the mess I made.

But then again,

even if you had lent your shoulder,

I doubt that I would lay my head on it;

for you were the one who made the mess in me.

You didn't break my glass,

you broke my heart;

leaving me with its edgy shreds,

slivering me inside out. 

Bloody, now I am.

And as how hesitation is present
every time I take a glass now

and be very discreet when holding it,

so will I be when it comes to both

seizing and handing my very own heart. 

A promise, I have made to myself;

that I will guard what I have left

with all that I am.

I broke one glass already,

and it should not take more than that.

I will not let any other glass fall off my grip,

let alone something much more fragile than it:

my heart.