Love is a sickness and I may be clinical
Even without a point of reflection
Extending further, further still
The echo breaks my feelings into shards of glass
Frightening me dearly, the sharpness nauseating
Paling energy and it’d be refreshing to cry
             But weakness shames in this alleyway of
              fiends
And my friends are angels, I cannot grasp
     Glimmering pasts and greeted headings
  These corporate meanderings prescribed
                                         surely is no cure
Because these cruelties extend to all possibilities
   And uglies the flower, the exquisite of being
   Why you leave.. The little self leads
             Endless mirrors pushing you back

We decided to build a house
Made from glass dreams and ceilings of too high expectations
Laughter and secrets coated the walls
And dance parties lasted all night long.

But a storm came
With insecure winds and alcoholic rain,
And shattered the glass house.

I desperately collected the broken pieces
Slicing my hands and cutting my heart
Making my skin burn as I tried to mend the broken parts.

Worn out bandages and glue well past the expiration date
Were never going to fix this pile of glass
Though I never stopped trying
Til I noticed you had rocks in your hand
With no intention of ever putting them down.

So I let go of the glass
That forever marked my skin
And I walked away from the mess you made
Remembering to never
Build a house made of glass
Ever again.

Dont treat me like glass
Because you think Im fragile
Treat me like glass
Because I am beautiful but breakable

Water whispers, froths and bubbles.
Tiny bodies swim in doubles,
Schooling along the edge of their world
Where the fish tank ends.

A panting tongue creates a mist;
Soft golden fur, tail in a twist,
Barking at the outside world
Where the window ends.

Poised and tense, smooth muscles coil
Whiskers twitch with internal turmoil
To track a leaf beyond her world
Where the sliding door ends.

Dreary shivers, dark and damp,
God's distant voice my only lamp.
I can only gape at the mad, mad world
Where my glass cage ends.

My thoughts are confusing.
I love them, but hate them and I can never tell if they are trying to raise me up or destroy me. I will look at myself in the mirror and think that I look pretty. I will look at myself an hour later and want to shatter the mirror with my forehead and smear the blood from my glass cuts all over my face as makeup to go to work. What difference does an hour make!?

I can't see me unless I have a mirror.
I can see everyone through that glass.
But they are looking at themselves.