12/8: Untitled

I built a home with walls of glass

to see the flowers but never touch

to never smell

 

I built a house with stairs of glass

to see the grass but never touch

and never fell

 

I built a love with stares of glass

I built a love with wails of glass

for eyes that always see, but never swell

 

I hung portraits of almost-loves,

crooked frames on bent nails

broken frames with bloody nails

 

swept the shards into a mask

called it “cleaning up my act”

so the nights could slip sockless

and pick my ghosts from their skin

 

to lay on a bed of tempered lies

on the edge that might hold me.

fever-dreams dripping down like dew—

cold, close, and gone by dawn

 

the portraits yawned, their eyes that crack 

sand. their mouths split, tongues that spit 

my name. consecrating shame. 

condensation; my skin

 

crucifixion my whims. I hung 

 

them anyway

I hung 

 

them again. the glass 

too thin

 

because empty nails

are worse company