how I wept.
His sharp shards of ice-cold stares
made butterfly crystal tears
that froze upon red porcelain skin.

I cracked within like a chic
breaking from her eggshell home
to find herself in the nest alone.
Eyes tightly sewn.

And pieces strewn like broken glass
cutting me at every pass.
I stuck to myself
with beads of sweat.

And bloods run out
like glue that set.
So, I asked the man in the marmalade sky
why all of us are born to die.