I don’t remember the last time I cried in someone’s lap,

Or revealed a phobia in need of release. 

I’m not the type to get too close, 

Too friendly, too involved or too in love.

I like my companions near but in the distance like a boat on the horizon. 

The irony is having a weakness about the inability to be weak. 

I’ve grown accustomed to my own gasps of shock, or surprise,

Or fear, or pain,

But could never enjoy the tone of pity, or empathy or hatred in the voice of another.

When I break a glass, I do so in silence as though the glass never held a form before the those shards on the ground. 

I sweep the glass into a dust pan and wipe away the shards

And sometimes I have to remind myself a glass has broken

And that it meant something to me. 

But I never remember until I’ve cut my foot on a leftover shard on the ground. 

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