Before you found me, I’d fallen from many hands. The worst part was the sound— high and piercing, demanding attention. Everyone at the table would suck in stuttering gasps or clench their hands around the silken tablecloth with bated breath. Despite my structure, I only suffered harmless, cosmetic scuffs.
I was always fragile, a fact illustrated by my delicate frame, held upright by a thin stem and topped by a dainty glass basin often filled with the finest, reddest wines. The upper class cherished me, taking me from the cupboard for an occasional jovial night of overindulgence. My beauty shone from where I sat, full and glistening. A radiant glass that belonged to a radiant woman. Alas, all good things must end. After a while in the lonely cabinet, I was passed down to the woman’s son.
Her son was a bitter man who’d slam me onto his sticky wood table and moldy cork coasters when he didn’t get what he wanted. The unfamiliar, unrelenting force shot through me in shrill shockwaves and ate away at my pristine body. My insides became stained with cheap liquor, dull and lifeless. It made him happy to ruin me, and I was built to please. His late mother’s favorite glass became an outlet for his hatred, ugly and unlovable.
By the time we met, cracks ran along my base in bluish, sickly lines, glass splinters poking out from my sides. Don’t touch me, they screamed, or I’ll bury my pointed hooks into you. You picked me up anyway, caressing my face with creased brows and wiping away a coat of dust with a fond, featherlight touch. Your fingertips caught on a jagged edge. I loved you immediately with a horrible reliant obsession, like a parasite loves a host. You loved me like a girl loves her father— idealistic and misguided.
You took me home, rinsing me off in smooth, practiced motions. Soapy, lukewarm water and sweet nothings bubbled inside me as I was painstakingly hand-washed for the first time in ages. My insides strained to hold together only so I could do right by you. When I gleamed proudly, clean and new, you poured a familiar wine. After years, I was home.
Neither of us noticed it spilling out of me, pouring down your arm and onto the kitchen floor. I caught on your soft lips, opening you too easily. We bled, thick and languid. I begged you for more as you placed me down, your expression souring.
Fill me up with all you can give, so I won’t be alone and empty. Fill me up with expensive nectar as it leaks out onto the floor. Fill me up over and over until you are drained and parched like me. Drink from me until you become useless and ugly too, your face covered in thin, red scars. Don’t leave.
Hold me so tight that it hurts— so tight that I shatter into your pale skin. I’d happily live forever, nestled deep in your tissue. Digging ravenously into the flesh of your arms, I’d bask in you; warm, red, and perfect. I’d say I didn’t mean to make you cry. We know it’d be a lie, but does it matter if we choose to believe it? Do you love me as much as I love you? When you see the faint afterimage of scars I’d leave, would you smile? Would you feel needed? If you loved again, would you ache because of me?
Like a host to a parasite, you’d eventually have nothing left to give, overcome by my greed. You’d die on the stained kitchen floor, and I’d die with you once your lifeless form was reduced to cracked, yellowing bones and broken glass. Maybe it’d be better that way, my dear. Or maybe it’s best you put me back where you found me, in a dusty box of your late father’s belongings. He loved you exactly like I love you.
