I am fragile.
I can shatter.
I disguise myself as steel.
Cold, hard, shiny steel.
Steel is strong, reliable, unbreakable.
But as much as I try to convince myself, I will always be glass.
I paint myself every morning, wrap myself in a cloak of strength.
I zip on a suit of trustworthy mother-ness.
I protect my people, I listen to their troubles.
I shelter them from harm, but the dome of protection I offer only looks like steel.
Truly? It is glass.
It chips with every tear shed by another.
It cracks with every problem unloaded.
It splits with every oblivious blind eye turned.
If only people asked whether I was okay, for once.
If only people cared enough to ask if I had any problems.
Even so, I often don’t know what is wrong.
Sometimes, my glass self shatters, and it wasn’t caused by anything.
When I do break, I gather the shards before they hit the ground.
I quickly slot them back and cover the cracks before anyone notices.
It is an old habit.
I hide any of my own problems, so as to help others deal with theirs.
But I am not steel.
I am glass.
I can shatter.
I am fragile.