You are the sensation of bony knuckles against a cheekbone,
the blood that escapes torn flesh.
You are the savage wolf tearing the innocent deer apart, limb by limb,
and the sharp slice of frigid wind on a Sunday morning.
You are the eerie glow of the moon at midnight
and the thorns upon the stem of a delicate white rose.

It is obvious to see you are not the joyous laughter of an infant at bliss,
the earthy scent of rain flooding sidewalks and streets,
or the tender embrace between lovers after a prolonged absence from each other.
And you are certainly not the elderly crossing man that smiles warmly in one's presence.

It is possible that you are the mother bear shielding her beloved cub,
maybe even the policeman with dense fingers lingering on the trigger of a gun,
but you are not even close
to being the beaming sun that casts upon one's face after a bitter season of winter.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the diamond winks on freshly-fallen snow
nor the rustle of autumn leaves that satisfyingly crunch underneath the pressure of one's feet.

It might interest you to know
that I am the fragrance of timeless novels in a dusty bookstore.

I also happen to be a lion's heart,
a lipstick stain imprinted upon a lone napkin,
and the hungry waves of the ocean relentlessly beating against the shore.

I am also the most towering tree of the forest
and a chick hatching from the protection of its shell.
But keep in mind, I am not the glass shards clinging to one's battle wounds.
I will never be the glass shards clinging to one's battle wounds.
You, however, will always be the glass shards clinging to one's battle wounds,
a reminder of the suffering that may have been easily avoided if one had simply taken precautions.