I have a heart that should be of steel,

But it is glass, smooth and easily broken.

It is the reason I forbid myself from love,

The reason why I avoid talking about you.

My mother is a glassblower,

Hand-crafting something full of light.

My father plays baseball,

And he cracks my windows.

You say you don’t play baseball,

But you throw stones instead

And then lie about it afterwards.

I don’t throw baseballs or stones,

but I’m too scared to make something,

so I offer shards of myself to join the dustbin

Of other shattered things,

hoping they’ll use me and a soldering iron

to piece themselves together again.

Will the next person offer me a grinding stone,

or a hammer meant for a rage room?