I am a fragile piece of pottery,
capable of holding anything you need from me.
You can fill me with water, wine, dirt, or dust,
and I will always treat it like gold.

You were a gun, I was your target practice.
You learned to tread carefully, knowing a single word
could shatter me.

You forgot to hold your tongue,
slowly stopped caring.
You knew I was fragile,
yet you fired with intent to break me.
You needed me shattered.

I was a fragile piece of pottery,
now only a pile of cracked clay.
You never cared to clean up the mess you made,
always blaming me for my brokenness.
Your bullets left holes in the museum walls,
and I was the one who paid for every fine.

When you left,
you took the roses
with you

And I finally saw
every red flag
I was warned of.

K.W.