stained glass heart
a poem on intimacy
broken in tiny pieces
discovering what is next?
delusional derangement tied together with a bow
my insanity looks simple next to the chaos that encapsulates me
struggling to breathe
waiting for an answer
i choose me
i may be wise but i’ve slipped into the comfort of numbers
it’s safe here
more is better
cutting you out to save myself
i can’t breathe
my heart
on a key chain gifted to you from me
please be careful
intimacy is a two way street but i’m scared for you to see
my love is not a clear window
obstructed views from the outside in
glass painted with colors that tell you how i doing
the walls of my mind tell you stories of who i am
a work of art carefully crafted by the one who created me
but i choose who gets to see this masterpiece
i fall fast and forgive quickly
my love is fragile
a heart easily broken when pressure is applied
but do not mistaken my fragility for weakness
senses heightened
i see you for who you are
i’m a mosaic made at multi faceted colors and schemes
a collection of emotions and feelings
my stained glass heart tells a story but only once i’ve let down the walls i’ve built up tall and sturdy
maybe for a second i’ll let you see
the love i hold
the tenderness i carry
take my hand
and see what see
feel what i feel
as i cross over into what is intimacy
i have a stained glass heart
tucked deep inside my chest
these days i choose to wear it around my neck
on display
can you see me?
About the Creator
Canaan Trice
Hi, my name is Canaan. I am just a girl who loves to write about the life happening around me and within me. I hope you enjoy.
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More stories from Canaan Trice and writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley6 days ago in Fiction
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