We live in glass houses
Clear knives on the floor
Stones lie in people’s hands
Voices lie inside our minds
So we pick up the pieces
Ignoring the cuts on our hands
And shard by shard we rebuild the window pane
But the cracks still show.
 
We live in glass houses
Blood from torn fingers on the door
Cracks like spider-webs
And on the floor sits a spider
Ready to suck out innocent insides
In our hands lies a rock
And we watch as the stone
Scatters the broken panes
Over the dollar-store welcome mat
By the door.



I wrote this.