She was born with a heart of glass—
clear, beautiful, breakable.
Even as a child, she knew
the danger of being seen through.
So she smiled politely,
spoke gently,
and built distance like a moat
around a castle of solitude.

She learned to keep her secrets
like treasure in a box—
safe, quiet, unseen.
Her laughter was light,
her expression unchanging.
No one saw the emotion beneath,
surging like a restless tide.

But one day, loneliness whispered louder
than caution’s voice.
She wanted warmth,
wanted to feel the press of friendship close.
So she cracked open the door,
let the light spill in,
and let them inside.

One by one, they cracked the glass.
The first, with envy’s ink,
wrote her story in a book—
her pain made into poetry
for others to read.
The second whispered her secrets
to hungry ears,
turning trust into gossip.
And the third—oh, the cruelest—
took her soul’s bare words
and stabbed her with a knife,
then left her
shattered and alone.

She gathered the pieces,
bloody-handed, trembling,
and built her walls
a mile high
and ten feet deep.
Now she hides her heart behind them,
her face a well-crafted mask—
gentle, agreeable, kind,
unchanging.

Her heart still beats,
but faintly,
echoing through crystal fractures.
She listens, she nods,
she never disagrees.
The world thinks her calm,
unbreakable, strong—
but she knows the truth:
if ever she let someone close again,
if ever she dared to love or trust,
her heart of glass
would finally shatter
into dust.