Glass

I must remember that my heart is one of glass. A tiny, fragile, being that will easily sit in the hand of any idle man that happens to find me in the gutter. It is tired, showing cracks and breaks around the outside. Scars of where it has been so carelessly dropped onto tiles and aged wooden floors of antique houses. I must remember not to be so quick to give it away, as I must trust the keeper very much. They must wrap it up in many layers of colorful tissue paper as to present it, to perfect it. It must be safe in layers of secrets and worn out letters from the past and the future and it must be warm most importantly. I do not want it to freeze. I must remember to keep it safe and to keep myself happy and I must remember that I am no longer a fool nor a child. That soon I shall be an adult. Maybe I shall keep my heart to myself for a while, locked away for no one to harm; maybe.