Choking Stones

Borderline.

The temperature on the floor is cold enough for me. The eyes in their fingers see too much. So many microscopes in every touch. Too close to see the whole.

I can't accept a smile I can't see as nice a gift as it is. Words. I already have too many of them. Pale impostors dressing up in the skins we've molted. Give me something real. A broken bone. A skinned knee. Something I can feel.

Not cars with eyes too bright peering through the glass. Not voices from machines that pretend people are there. Not jailcells on the ceiling that hold the shadows prisoner.

Don't tell me I can write. I know this. Because art belongs to the defectives. The ones who can see through the window, but can't walk through the door. Life is a house. It has a ceiling. And a basement. Life is a place. We can stay or we can leave it.

Life is a house made of glass. I can always see in. Always see out. That's what makes it so hard to know where I stand.