i remember when

you first told me about her.

how you were still talking to her

even though i said not to.

you kept saying it wasn't anything

and that is what told me it was.

my mother broke a wine glass

that night.

she walked in on me crying

in my room and she knew,

so long before i did,

what you were.

she set the wine glass down

on my nightstand too hard,

and the stem shattered.

maybe a while ago,

i would have written something

comparing that to my heart,

or my self worth,

or my mental health.

but today, i don't jump on

the opportunity to make just anything

into a metaphor anymore.

it's not a metaphor, anyway.

my mother broke a wine glass

because she saw what it was

and the thought of her daughter

trapped inside of that cage

was too much for her.

my mother broke a wine glass

because of you.

and i just don't think

there's anything poetic

in that.

-c.h.

~