You see me as glass,

so fragile and breakable.

But what if that's my choice?

When I break, it’s you who’s left bleeding.

You who picks up the pieces and cuts yourself with the jagged edges.

It’s you who deals with the mess.

If I’m glass, that means when I crash, I take you down with me,

And all the world will hear my final scream.

Perhaps I am the fragile one,

but it's you who suffers the pain.

So maybe it's not so bad

Being broken into pieces.