Glass

I don't know how old I was when I first died.

I was rebuilt from shards of glass taped together.

I forget how old I was when I tore the tape apart to reveal jagged ends.

I don't know how old I was when my anxious, reluctant acceptance of the world turned into a spitfire voice.

A spitfire voice with the question "why?"

Was I four, or nine?

Maybe it was when I was sixteen?

Or even more recently.

The truth is, I have no idea.

My past blurs together, a river of memories long gone.

Perhaps that is for the best.

Why should I remember what killed me in the first place?

I cannot change it, nor fix the cracks I now hold.

My ends are sharp, yet not sharp enough to keep me alive.

I have shattered too many times to keep track of.

This tape is worn down and reused, near useless.

I am made of glass, made of shards one could never hope to fix.

Death is my constant companion.

He is warm, and gentle, and does not fear the jagged ends because they can not keep me from Him.

I am dead.

I was killed when I was too young to remember why.

Too young to realize things should have been different.

Too young to know that I should have lived.

I was made of glass.

Back when I was alive, at least.