I always seem to place myself in your hands like a porcelain doll.
Ready to be placed on a wooden shelf.
But your hands always wither to the touch of my glass skin.
I am real to most but when it comes to you I am a rose petal ready to be plucked to see if you "like me, like me not"
But that shelf has become molded overtime and the cracks on my glass skin have begun to show.
Your hands are not my sanctuary anymore. You left me alone and on display except for when you needed me.
Except for when that curiosity in your mind said "grab her"
But she is not yours anymore
Her glass skin has become more human by the day. Until suddenly she stood by herself and walked away.
Ready to be her own sanctuary .