by Gina Maria Manchego
That November day on the stoop, you touched me like I was made of glass. Forever your porcelain doll.
Your fingers took their trembling sparrow flight and landed on my skin.
A thumb, too jumpy to rest, made its way around and around my ankle bone. Like a hawk circling the sky for something to prey on, just my exposed soul was spotted. You scouted, set your target and consumed me, had your fill.
With weathered hands and a little boy’s heart, you quivered, afraid to reach out to really hold on. Dichotomy dilemmas chip away at your conscience. Perhaps you were always scared you’d destroy me?
At that moment, our eyes met. Mine were screaming questions, whilst yours brimmed with guilt.
You swallowed hard over a lump in your throat and drew back quickly. Taking a jagged breath in, you winced, as if my skin had cut you.
It was then, we both realized, you were like a bull in a China Shop breaking me to pieces. Smashing about in the cabinets of my heart.
You left me in shards, whilst I left your ego bleeding.