Stained Glass

My heart is held in the hands of people who like to break things.

Chaos is their default, and

everything is my fault.

Why do the broken always find me?

They think I am a mirror, but I am a window.

I am not fractured like them, but convenient and translucent.

They keep their hands firm against my cold surface aching for warmth.

Their empty eyes stare through me while they continue to look for their Vice.

But I am not a bottle, or a father, or a friend, or a lover.

I am woman, and my mosaic is just not for them.