You make me feel a certain kind of way;

A way that my mind, which is programmed to overanalyze everything back to the focal point of the beginning of humanity,

can't seem to comprehend.

You make me feel like I can

move mountains and write a novel;

But you also make me feel

as small as an anthill

as fragile as my mother's favorite vase

When I was born, the doctor put a "handle with care" sticker on me, and 

declared me fragile.

When they finally shipped me off into the real world,

I cracked.

I shook. Pieces of me were on the ground,

and my glass-cut fingers were unable to pick them up.

I was labeled as "Damaged."

You took a stroll down the street, and followed the trail of broken glass to where I was.

You picked me up, dusted me off, and tried to fit the pieces back in place.

You didn't get mad when some of them wouldn't fit.

You have a certain kind of power over me, and darling,

I sure hope you like damaged goods.