I taught myself how to run

I am shattered but whole. I am made of cracks but I refuse to break. I have a hard time keeping myself together, but I keep it together anyway. I am made of broken pieces of glass but I remain whole. 

I am fragile. I am sensitive. I am vulnerable.

One hit, a small one, I'd fall to the ground, in a million microscopic pieces. Every piece made of glass. Every piece takes a sacrifice. Gathering the pieces is near to impossible. And I know I wouldn't be whole again. 

So I carry on, with the burden of keeping everything on a balance, pushing away anything that might threaten my existence.

But I take a hit anyway, from someone who's supposed to protect me. He disguises himself as a Guard, swore to protect me from outsiders. But he held the weapon that hurt me. He put me on my current state of mind, spinning in a millisecond, about to fall and break. And the crowd watches, waiting what will happen next. Awaiting the fall. Awaiting my fall. 

He brought me to the cliff and pushed me to see if I fall. But little did he know he broke my wings before. I tell him I cannot fly. But he tells me, "No,  you should learn how to fly." I was on the verge of tears when I said, "No, I taught myself how to run."