My hands are cut from broken glasses
seeking for your approval.
As if blood can turn us into strangers,
Walking on eggshells with you was brutal
in a sense that reliving your childhood would
find the answers that would diffuse your lack of
understanding the collateral damage you caused
on those around you.
I understand that something that was once broken
can’t go back to its original.
Even if you decide to fix the issue,
the cracks will remain visible.
Even if guilt allows you to pick the
pieces with your bare hands, the cuts and blood stains
can’t comprehend the emotional damage that was collected
You compounded your pain and chaos became that interest.
I, come with no intention but to pick your pieces
that I haven’t caused
and now my hands are cut from broken glasses
Seeking for your approval..