I am in a glass box
and I don’t know how to escape it.
I have seen tigers ablaze and
actors fake it, half wrung clothes
spread out to dry, knowing
no one would come to take them in because
their purpose had been washed away like the dirt that stained them, I
I see colors become grief in the sink that is my belly,
constantly filling and draining and bubbling with every new emotion but
so rarely empty and still and calm.
I have felt the grind and the crunch, the smooth sweet friction of glass, brittle and metallic and clear, shard and crack and finally snap bang broken
flood held behind blockage put beneath, breeze
kept out come rushing in for it is no longer a breeze but a gale ready to strip out the remaining brokeness-
tomorrow, don’t forget me. Don’t forget the glass I was now that I am real.

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