delicate

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.