People look at my arm and ask,
How I suffered that deep cut.
I look at my arm , and answer ,
A piece of glass scarred me deep.
What they fail to understand is that,
She was the glass.
Delicate and shiny.
A little rough about the edges but very smooth if someone took time to look beyond the surface,
They would realize, she reflects.
She was strong , tough yet, soft and fragile.
She was predictable in her unpredictability.
I tried to polish her , and when I pressed hard, The glass broke and hurt me deep.
I look at my arm again, and say that it’s been a while but it still hurts , yet it doesn’t kill me.