The Glass House

The Glass House

Outside the glass house looking in, odious inklings stir,

as imageries, drag me, racing backwards looking for that

place where time was stagnant, tethering itself to peace,

if in fact, the peace was a reality and not an imagined safe

place in your head.

Distorted, yet longed for days when droplets fell from

your eyes in both gladness and despair the days that took

your ability to breathe, to dream, finding yourself, not

knowing you, but only whom they thought you should be,

and the frustration of not achieving that mark, moved always

just out of your reach. Escape was desired, yet feared.

The insatiable hunger for a mother's compassion and indications

of love that seemed never to appear on the wind blown horizon of

your child's vision and perspective. Thirst for acknowledgement

that kept you awake at night, trying to swallow the bitterness of

parched emotions, as vowels and consonants with weaponry

keep captive the dreams trying to drag themselves from the pit,

violated and weary.

Sharpened objects flying toward you, looking, strangely like

extended tongues with no limitation on distance or time. Early

you become agile at trying to dodge the piercing of the blades but

remember the impalement when the movement was the wrong

one. Only your eyes could see the blood from the wound, and

only your ears hear the laughter that burns the brand on your soul.

You shudder at the multiplication of the false words spoken by you

as to your wellness and the people in the glass house look out at you

and shake their heads, not understanding your inability to participate

in their celebrations. The blinders on their eyes drive you to insanity,

wanting to extend your hand and rip them off, screaming at them to see.

A long breath presses up though your lungs and forces down the over-

whelming desire to shed tears that they did not see then, and they will not

see now. So you keep your paper towels and Windex on hand, ever

cleaning the glass house in vain, trying to remove every spot that

might occlude your entrance, but you know your place. So you continue

observations of life through the glass wall, from the outside looking in.