You told me this was delicate
a flower. a thin piece of glass.
I heard you and so I carry it
a certain way
cupped in my palms
like holy water
a beautiful little thing that only
we can see.
You failed to mention that while I'm the one
who gets to carry it
this gift we gave to each other
you're the one who gets to
spill it on the floor
expecting that I can form it anew
from pieces on the ground
wondering why it looks different
after I've done my best to put it together again.
So what is it that you really want?
You can't be one,
expect me to be another,
and still wonder why we break.