Glass Slivers

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I’ve surrounded my
heart with layers
so thick.
Few are allowed inside.
But I’m the one
who does the
most damage.
My heart is glass
and it sits,
lonely on a table.
My hammer is propped
up against a wall,
worn from use.
A tube of glue lies
on a shelf.
Glass litters the floor
because when I shatter
my heart again and again
it’s hard to find
all the pieces.





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