They are right there.
Close enough to touch.
But they are untouchable.

They are made of steel.
Their eyes a hard, hard metal.
Dull and rusty and impenetrable.
Their body made of scratched steel.
Rigid, unchanging, a statue.

I am made of glass.
My eyes made of water.
That leak out
every time I reach out
only to find
that they are statues
and not human,
not my parents
anymore.
My body made of shatter and of hurt.
Of confusion and of anger.
Of blood that runs
whenever I cut myself
on my broken glass.
I cannot heal myself.
I cannot glue back my broken glass.
I can only stand there,
and hope that the steel knife
does not break my glass heart
completely.