My heart is iron
It feels no emotion.
No amount of sadness or happiness can effect it.
Ever.

It wasn't always this way
It used to be fabric, flimsy and unstable
Always letting those annoying emotions hurt.
I was nothing more than a baby

But I changed after those words
My heart turned to ice, hard and cold but crackable
And I wouldn't settle for crackable
So then it changed to iron.

My heart is iron
And I am proud
But the iron is only a cover
For a beautiful diamond

Uncaring minutes are but passersby
disregarding my wails.
They hear me; they offer no help.
Though, with only sixty seconds to exist,
why would they stop for me?

The hours pound against my skull with intent to smash their way in.
Such constant clangor resonates through my consciousness
disturbs my ego,
dislodges regrets,
the agitation seems to sieve out
tiny jealousies from among other thoughts.

The Days...
Oh those ******* Days.
They see me confused and seize their chance;
they pull out my feet
right from under my frame,
and helpless, hurt,
I collapse to the earth.
And here time really sets in.

The Months form gangs called 'Years'
and The Years take their turn
breaking my joints, my fingers, my knees,
all my snappable, crackable points.
Curved, crippled,  and creaking,  
I languish in fantasies of what's supposed to be,
oh, and the 'might-have-beens'.

Time makes things worse.

A dark shadow moves over me.
I look up  as far as a heavy, beaten head will allow
only to see the massive, soul-crushing weight of the decades
seating their backside;
oppressively,
down to rest upon my twig-like spine.
Snap

And throughout the abuse,
I crawl, cringe, cower
as safe as can be in a low lying state on the ground,
(which is still six feet too high for all that time cares!)
I hear from somewhere afar
an unfaltering decree
from my maker to me
"Stand up straight! For Heaven's sake!"

Nothing can stop
the hot searing burn,
the shock of jumping into freezing water.
but worse,
instead of water, ice appears
and I hit it hard,
unexpectedly, everything cracks.
Surprise becomes hysteria,
and hysteria becomes aching,
aching regret for being
on the losing side of the contract.

The knit comes undone,
and I,
grasp onto these
remaining lose threads,
cant seem to get a hold of them,
I tangle them
and leave them under the bed
with other lost objects.
Little things to remind myself
of you.
A pin on a map
or smudges on the wall.

And when the loss
becomes unbearable,
I become unreachable.
Water can try to wash everything,
but the stain of tears,
the sensation of drowning,
never goes away.
Alone, and scared,
of losing contact,
and of losing remembrance
of the clear glass,
un-crackable
and untouched,
by anyone.