He held me, for so long,
like something he was afraid to break.
A flower, whose petals might drift away
if the winds blew too strong.
A delicate lace,
a beautiful pattern he could see right through.
A martini glass,
threatening to shatter if anyone dared
hold on too tightly.
But when he squeezed,
and I though I would come spilling out -
the love and the hurt and the tears
unable to hide behind my gentle exterior -
as he pulled back
and his hands stung from his actions
he saw I am not delicate, but sharp;
a switchblade -
made for cutting ties.