Her heart was fragile, like a thin pane of glass. One wrong move would break it down. She was cautious with her glass heart, never falling too fast, but landing gently in disappointment so her heart was scratched, but still intact.
He wiped away everything she had worked for when he blew into her life. He was a storm of a man. Feelings, glances, laughs, touches, smiles all whirled around and swept her up in his wind. They had a whirlwind romance, it was never meant to stand the test of time. And when he left, taking his storm with him, she didn't have a chance to catch her glass heart before it shattered on the ground. Every piece she picked up held a memory that ripped her open, leaving a trail of crimson in her wake. Soon she had gathered all the pieces, but nothing could make them go together again.
Her glass heart was in pieces and with them she built something new to fill the aching hole in her chest. Piece by painstaking piece, she fashioned a rose from the bloodstained shards of glass. And when she placed it in her chest, a light burst from her. For no longer did she have a fragile glass heart, but a sharp, strong, beautiful, piece of artwork that rose from the ashes of disaster. And from that day on, the light drew people flocking to her. But the rose was sharp and she never let anyone get close enough to touch it again. For if they did, they would undoubtedly be cut and their crimson life would only serve to deepen the red of her strength.
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