Sunday 9/30/2007 12:10:00 AM

There was a girl with skin made of glass. Anyone could see inside it. Anyone at all.

The light would shine through forming a prism inside her. Colors she couldn't name. Her clothes wearing her. In placid marathons. People. Like black under her skin. Turning her into a mirror. Nothing to see except what is there.

With heavy eyes weighted in the seduction. The thump of winter in a fading sun. Glass flesh. Coloring itself in by the light that's always searching. For confirmation of its existence.

Lazy storms forget to rain. There's never lightning anymore. Just grass. Too green to be legitimate. And people like little plastic army men. Frozen in their killing. Or their surrender.


If she lets you see all the way inside her. Broken being so much less spectacular when there are no pieces left to step on.

Consumed with the dangling participle healthy veins never wonder after.

There was a girl with skin made of glass. Everything inside could see out. Everything outside could see in.

And she had always felt sorry for those that didn't know what an easy life it could be.

Little gods dressed up in the robes of big ones. Like all the dresses she's tried on and taken off. Slow ambulances that saved her when she didn't want to be.

She sees how they remember. In dialogue balloons drawn above their heads. In frames nimble with irony. Broken cameras take pictures of the people we've never been.

The girl with glass skin still waiting for someone to see through her.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.