Glass Man
I see right through you.
I see all the angles,
the bending light,
the ways you twist yourself—
convincing us you are solid.
A glass man.
Fragile. Hollow.
Reflecting to fool us,
to make us think you have depth.
But I see straight through you.
You think you’re untouchable,
but splinter at the first sign of pressure.
You open our wounds
and pretend not to notice,
stepping over our bleeding bodies.
Your words crack before they land.
Excuses.
Half-truths.
Shattered at our feet.
I won’t pick them up again.
I won’t bleed for you.
I watch you patch your fractures with charm,
pressing yourself into another new shape,
trying to catch the light just right,
trying to make us forget the cracks.
But when you shatter next time,
I won’t be standing close enough
to feel the glass hit my skin.
Not. this. time.