Sliver
I prefer to be trusting.
I freely give some trust to all people, and more to those I let close.
Only when that trust is broken do I stop to think if it’s deserved.
I pick up the broken pieces of trust like shards of glass, the edges cutting into my palm and slivers working their way into my heart. I fashion the parts back into a whole, and if I see no ill intent, I once again give the one who broke it my trust.
Cracked.
Fragile.
But mendable.
Only when my heart
is so full of slivers
that my blood is choked
and I cannot fit
the broken pieces together
will I leave them on the floor.