Lines In the Porcelain

My skin is a delicate porcelain. Never used, and well taken care of because it is fragile. Always on display because fragility is beautiful until it actually breaks. One wrong move and it chips, followed by a crack then ends up shattering. Lines to me are cracks in the beautiful porcelain I called my skin that used to hold me together. The lines grew deeper with each one to become more visible. A cry for help that nobody sees until it is too late. Lines led me astray and out of touch with everything inside of me, teetering on the edge, my skin was set in motion Begining to fall with no hope of being caught. Catching me after I fell was pointless because by then I was already shattered. The red rivers had already been drained. I soon fell again and like humpty dumpty I couldn't be put together again. Now I'm just broken, dropped one too many times because the lines grew too deep.