Don’t look at me with those watercolor eyes and upturned mouth, as you ask me again, for my fragility and weakness.
I will not trade my heart for yours. Yours grants peace and hope.
Mine only destruction and disgrace. I do not know how to hold such a striking object as your heart.
I will hold it in my hand just long enough for its beat to synchronize with my breath, then condemn it to ash. I am too reckless to be given such a gentle task.
When you reach for my heart, you do not know for what you ask. I know you yearn for something in return.
But not this. Not this. Not this.
I watched you reach for it gingerly. Heard the tremble in your voice, as you told me how beautiful it is.
The bruises still blackened and healing. Shards of glass and rusted blades cut you and now your blood is on my hands.
Your lips quiver as you lie to me, “It’s okay. I can fix this.”
I almost believe you, but we both know you can’t. Not because your hands aren’t strong. Not because you cannot bear the struggles of my past.
Because I can’t.