Handle with Care

Can you hear it? The sound of betrayal that
lingers outside windows of those who have
been deceived. Or perhaps its louder around
my windowpane because that's exactly what
I'm in, pain, and you left your dirty fingerprints
smeared on the glass that now clouds my view.

As a wise artist once said you'll always be my hero
even if your fingertips are scrabbling up the absalt
not knowing where to go, always fumbling, and
desperately clinging onto that love we kept stating
existed. For whoever said love was wrapped in a little
bow, all tidy and neatly wrapped in a cute package clearly
never knew true love or knew what it meant to be so
hysterically in lust or want or greed.

My understanding is that our love came in a soggy, half taped,
cardboard box, that postmen leave on porches.
Fragile and damaged before we even began, but I never
believed in glittered romances, perfect from the get-go. I
knew we weren't normal, but I didn't know you
were going to leave because of it.

And I truly never expected you to become one of those parcels
where it didn't matter if you were delivered or not, it didn't matter if
you were dispatched to the correct address, or if I truly believed
you were meant to arrive within my hands as an unopened gift.
Resting unopened, unwanted, and lost forever in the junk
of the delivery mans truck.

I regret treating you like you weren't treasured. I regret not
telling you, I've never had someone, something, some place like you...
I never knew you were breakable, but you didn't know I was glass.
Now I'm stuck here wondering, who hurt who?