I don't mean to hurt you. I do it by accident. A few words and I can break you into a million pieces. I tip-toe around you, trying not to cause any damages, but somehow I always do. I watch what I say, making sure none of it could hurt you, but then you catch me off guard, and I said something that hurts you.
It is all because of the feelings you have for me. It makes you breakable and delicate. Anything I say to you gets analysed closer than anything would from someone else, so something bad that is said, seems so much worse coming from me. I don't resent you for it, I do it to sometimes. It just makes things complicated.
You are just so fragile. I know you don't mean to be, but you are. A dew words and you can be hurt. I suppose I can be too, it isn't just you. Yet your feelings for me can make you hurt more than most.
I try to hold you together. I try to glue you back to how you were, but there is always a piece missing. You are never the same as you were before I broke you. You have always been changed and altered slightly, and I'm worried if I keep on breaking you, then eventually there will be nothing left. I can see the damage I do to you. I see it every day when I look at you.
Then I think I have got you glued up again, and you are fixed and ready to be sent out on your own. I cradle you and try to make sure no one hurts you, as you have been told, I'm very protective over you, but I can never protect you enough. Someone always comes along and breaks you again. Maybe that is my problem. I cradle you so hard and try to protect you from everything, that I don't see someone coming to hurt you.
Sometimes it is me. I say something and you get hurt. You break and I work to rebuild you again. I push all the pieces together carefully, fitting them together like a puzzle. though the picture has been distorted. Yet, sometimes it isn't me who breaks you. Someone else comes along and undoes all my hard work. They come along and wash away the glue, and make you fall to pieces again. My work can be broken in seconds.
Then it comes to me. One day I might not be there to pick you up and fix you. Who will be there to rebuilt you then? I will have to pass on everything I know to someone else. The thought cripples me. A stranger rebuilding you. Putting their hands on the person I have been rebuilding for years. The one who I cradled and soothed when they were in pain. The one who has been through everything with me, and we both got out on the other side. Who is this stranger that has come to replace me? I can't let go of you. Ever.