The feeling started with a sharp, deep jab,
so seldom that it's easy to forget.
But ignorance is bliss until the stab-
you touch your breast and feel the cold regrets.
Your heart is slowly turning into glass-
and not in any metaphoric way-
the muscles mutate into a hard mass.
Glass tissue filled with red like wine in clay.
It doesn't matter why this is your fate,
as every breath is heavyhearted hurt.
But all the protection has come too late;
if only you'd of played a different flirt.
Your mother warned you not to make that face,
or one day it would stick- she's made her case.