Hiding from a rainstorm
is supposed to be tranquil :
                the patter of rain...
                the rumble of harmless thunder...
                watching the storm, but never feeling it...
Just raindrops on windows, with you safe inside.

But what if that thunder is the breaking of a friend's heart?
The lightning, the slashing of her dreams?
Her storm is raging within a snow globe…
From the outside, beautiful and perfect...
Unless you know the truth.

Thank God for that glassy protection, right?
Except...
             For all your good intentions...
             And best efforts...
             And wishful thinking...
All you can do is stay by her side
until her world settles.

What if that storm was a torrent of bullets,
Tearing her to pieces?
You can only watch,
Untouchable behind bulletproof glass...

I mean, at least you're safe, right?
… But doesn't it hurt you to witness it
Without being able to intervene?

What if that rain is made of salty tears?
Heartaches and losses and sorrow...
You can try...
                 and be there for her...
                 and phone and listen...
                 and offer every ounce of your comfort...
But no matter what you do...
God still controls the weather.

I mean, at least it isn't your own suffering.
… But that's just it, isn't it?
There's no doorway through a wall of glass.

See,
The very best part of chrysalism
Is that you're hiding on the inside
Within your own peaceful world.

The worst?
You can't swap places.

broken glass has nothing on you.
it is dull in comparison.
you have to push it to bring the blood
while one memory of you brings a flood.

-my heart started bleeding before you even left.

I am told I see my glass half empty
I should see it half full when I look at it
Empty or full either way I see a glass containing ****

Have you ever seen a brick go through a glass window?
It seems to happen in slow motion.
The window never expects the brick to be thrown.
The brick still shatters the window anyway.
For a brief moment, the two touch, then nature takes course.
The broken pieces of the glass litter the ground, and the brick is on the other side.

I was the window.
You were the brick.

Now I am stuck.
Picking up the broken pieces of what used to be.
The shattered edges of what was slip and slice
My hands, my heart, my head.

Once glass is broken it can never be put back together.
The window that held everything in is gone
letting the heat and warmth flow into the cool night air.

For a time, I tried to open that window, to you.
Let in the stale air that surrounded me.
In the end I decided to leave it open, just a crack
to slowly change.

It was not enough.
Now I am shattered.

I can't hold back what's inside now.
the cold air is rushing in.
I am scared.
I am shattered.

I try to pick up the pieces, to patch the window with what I can.
Nothing fits perfectly.
The window that was there
the one you shattered
was all I had.

I sit in front of the broken window
hating the brick for what it has done.
hating myself for not opening the window sooner.

I am shattered.

You are a brick.
You did not throw yourself.

I did.

oh they shatter
they glimmer
in a forbidden house
was full of corpses
the girl accomplices
with her rope
and hope
with slits
by glass bits
she hanged
and blood had banged
by glass bits was the stars
that witnessed her death
that witnessed every scars

Faces painted all around
but they made no sound
Seeking glass eyes found;
Open book kept bound