Your words,
harsh but honest,
knock me over.
On the floor, I shatter.
You try to pick me up
and cut you're fingers on the shards of me -
the broken pieces of what had been
and could have been.
You try to fix me with sticky tape,
but some wounds
will never heal.
And after a long time of trying,
you have to sweep me up with a wooden broom
and toss me in a graveyard of other broken things.
You've messed up,
you realise too late.
And now I'm gone.