Porcelain

Two glassy eyes and a painted-on smile,
Delicate veneer over 'feminine wiles'.
Maybe it's sincere, and then maybe it's not;
Not like it matters much to me, see, I'm caught
Between a Victorian tea set and an old priceless vase.
It's incredible I made it this far into this place
With its shelves of pottery, its trinkets, its dolls,
Stacked up to the ceiling, piles lean against the walls.
I just wasn't MADE for precarious navigation,
Treading softly in the hopes of avoiding agitation
Of these old leaning pillars of brittle sentiment and glass.
Dust settles in my eyes; I could end it all and fast,
Lower my head and LOW, charge, trample underfoot,
Break and crush, destroy; ash to ash and soot to soot.
For I am beast not doll, though still weaker than I know;
Might I reap a bitter harvest if selfishly I sow?
What will happen if the faces break to shards as I strike?
Will they yield slivers for my hands, and for my head a spike?
Broken glass is sharp, yes, and words pierce very deep,
But more than that, mightn't this be something I want to keep
Instead of breaking down and blasting down this complicated mess?
There's something here of value; but perhaps I digress.
Maybe they're not dolls either, neither helpless nor fragile.
Maybe there's no reason to wish I were a bit more agile.
Maybe I'm the one who's brittle, causing problems without cause.
Maybe I should just be honest instead of adjusting with each pause
In each sentence and each spoken word, and never mind the plate
That might get cracked along the way, so long as it's not out of hate.
I don't know; it's hard not to just take the connections and CHOP!
For I may not be a bull, but this sure feels like a china shop.