Am I made of porcelain?
Am I to break
When I no longer
Can be pretty?
Am I to break
At the slightest
Bump in the road?

Am I to be put
Behind layers
Of glass,
Only to be
Looked at,
Only to be
Walked past?

Am I to crumble
At the slightest breeze,
At the shortest word,
At the vaguest glance,
At the blurriest implication?

Am I made of porcelain
By shaky hands
And tired minds,
Made only to crumble,
Deliberately,
Or by sheer accident
Of repetition?

Was I made to withstand
Only perfect conditions,
Unable to adapt
To the slightest harshness?
Was I made to stand at all,
Or only to be rubble
History can wonder
What atrocities it withstood?

How many times
Can porcelain
Be repaired
Before it's broken
For good?

Is there a point
To repairing
What is made
To break?

Am I made of porcelain?
Am I only to break?