Pieces placed on my palms
As I try to rebuild what I've broken
With glue as my conscience
Of never keeping anything altogether
My TOUCH
Being the wrong ingredient in a well constructed recipe
I never had to take accountability
Was deemed as the suspect already
Gave birth to my fear of touching anything
As my guilt surrenders to each piece of broken glass
And sometimes I wonder if I really love him
Or I found some sense of belonging within him
An expirement of my capability to hold something safe
To find closure in knowing that for once I'm not the danger
No sight of warnings signs
Upon the close proximity of my presence