It's amazing what we can convince ourselves is secure.
Like these, these houses of glass,
These shard-filled, light-altering things,
These relationships.
You and I.
We took all the crystal-crazy, outrageously sharp things,
These stories, and ideas, and memories, and ancestral teachings,
And we created this house.
It's beautiful when the light hits it, just so.
So mesmerizing is the effect of our glass palace
that we forget how deadly, how knife-achingly, skin-piercingly dangerous
it is.
And we play,
with these balls and these bricks
And we throw around blame like it's our favorite pasttime
And one of these days,
That glass-structure-house is going to fall.
And we've aided the inevitable end,
with our lies and our secrets
On little tufts of tinder, on scraps and shreds,
these small inconsistencies we've tucked into the nooks and crannies
And, well.
If the bats and the bricks and the screaming and the thrashing don't bring it down,
A fire will.
The hardest thing to acknowledge is the burden of trying to forgive yourself.
And we're all just trying to make sense of the way that the light reflects on the glass
and the way that bumping into corners sometimes leaves cuts that are so clean the edges just heal right back together.
You handed me these pieces.
I'm so obsessed with gluing more blue to the already rainbow walls that I forget how crazy building a glass house actually is.
Your pieces were cracked.
I mean, really, truly cracked.
Like you'd snapped them, and re-seamed them, and handed them to me,
Carelessly, an abandoned thought.
I religiously placed them in the ceiling.
I glued them in with tears.
They made such beautiful light there.
Instability is like a well-worn coat
It's always been this way, it must be normal.
I have a glass house.
I made it right here.
It expands and it shrinks,
It snaps and it breaks,
It lacerates, and manipulates,
it operates and truncates,
My heart is now a half,
My fingers sliced to bits,
I live in a glass house.
I walk on crushed dreams
I re-live my nightmares
I eat the silica dust.
