I loved him in pieces of me
Like bits of an empty leaded
Crystal vase
Clumsily glued together
He inched closer
Knowing
I could cut his soul in half
How could he say
That I was beautiful
Did he prefer
Broken things
Was he enticed
By the scattered prisms
Of light reflected back
In his eyes
Maybe he thought
He could dull
My razor-sharp edges
That he could catch
And hold onto me
Unscathed
He sought pleasure
Yet settled for pain
My colors danced
In the chards of mosaic glass
It beckoned him to reach out
Only to tear into his hands
Over and over again
A knowing look remained
As if he had graced me
With acceptance
And the last bit of me
Slipped from his grasp
And shattered
Like a billion shiny stars
Already dead
Before they hit the ground
He deserved more
Than empty
Bloodied hands
Not all things that shine
Are precious
Not all beautiful things
Are meant
To be touched