if only.

I wrote some poetic prose last night. I don't know if I like it.



"It's a crime that anyone should be so careless with you. Throwing you around like you wouldn't break. We all know you're made of glass."

He didn't know. He didn't know she was fragile. He knew she was soft as a feather and her skin was the color of the crescent moon. She was though. Her skin was paper thin and she lived in a thimble in the left desk drawer. Maybe that was what it just felt like. Where she lived soft rivers flowed along the country side and everything was the palest shade of pastel. She only wanted to go somewhere with depth, to touch a sharp edge, or fall down somewhere where the ground didn't carry her weight. Her name was more of a thought, something you read but couldn't remember the moment after or a passing notion that you brushed off as impossible. She heard it all the time. He didn't throw her around like she wouldn't break. Whatever that meant, but maybe she wanted to. Maybe she wanted to break, for once. Maybe no one would quickly put her back together forgetting where all the pieces went. For that he had a finger for a toe.

Maybe he was treating her how a girl would want to be treated. Maybe she just wanted to be real for once, to really feel a touch or truly hear seething words. Most of the time she felt only felt like a sketch on the wall or an idea written sloppily on a napkin. She was just a rough draft and the finished piece was walking just ahead of her. But she could never catch up. She would have run away but there were too many places to go and not enough places to see. She hoped one day the haze would clear. Some of the clouds soaked with rain would leave her head.

Maybe one day they would let her shatter like she was meant to. And when she would finally pick up the pieces her skin wouldn't be paper thin and maybe she wouldn't be so fragile. She would be real. Her name would be a sunset after a rainy day or a bird nesting in a tree. If only she would let herself fall.