The boy who was made of glass.

He sometimes forgets that he has a heart that beats. There are tiny cracks if you look close enough. If you get close enough to see, but the chances of that are slim. He keeps you out, he keeps everyone out. He’s afraid of letting anyone get too close. They tell him he’s sweet, and kind, and loving but mostly he just feels mean and cold. Cold to the touch, cold to his core. When you touch him you can feel his muscles tense up at your grip, his heart begin to beat a little faster, his breath become more rapid. You can’t love someone who doesn’t let you in. Someone who doesn't allow you to. Someone who can’t even love himself. He sits up on a shelf somewhere, far out of reach. He thinks he’s safe that way, but doesn’t that just make him more susceptible to a fall, to a break?

The only time he remembers that he is blood and bones, and not glass after all, is when a tear or two begins to fall down his face. But if he is real and vulnerable, then that’s a little scarier still. Why can’t he feel anything? Why does he have to shake himself so hard every day just to remind himself that he is alive. That this is real. That things aren’t working. That the cracks are there. That there isn’t enough distance in the world to keep people from seeing them any longer.