Tonight I became a metaphor—again!
Someone needed to get somewhere
and I was the ground that didn’t move.
I felt my skin go rigid, wood-grain
and then stone, a flat thing
for boots to kick against.
I felt the weight of a whole body
press into my spine, certain and heavy,
crossing over to the other side
of an argument I wasn't allowed to have.
I stopped breathing.
Metaphors don’t need air; they are static.
I watched my hands go thin,
the grease and grit under my nails
drying into a signifier for "work."
Not the work of my fingers,
just the idea of it,
cleaned up and used to salt a speech.
I see the way you adjust your collar in me.
I see you checking your own eyes for fire,
tilting your head to find the version of yourself
that looks the most like a hero.
I am the surface that lets you believe it.
I know the exact pressure of your stare
and I know it is only a search
for a reflection you can live with.
The light clicks off.
The door-latch hits the strike plate,
and the room goes back to being
just a room where nothing happened.
I am left in the dark,
a pile of glass and discarded scraps,
the smell of someone else’s sweat
cooling on the floor.
I am the tool back in the drawer
with the dead batteries
and the tangled string.
Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 9:45 PM UTC
Tonight I became a metaphor—again!
Someone needed to get somewhere
and I was the ground that didn’t move.
I felt my skin go rigid, wood-grain
and then stone, a flat thing
for boots to kick against.
I felt the weight of a whole body
press into my spine, certain and heavy,
crossing over to the other side
of an argument I wasn't allowed to have.
I stopped breathing.
Metaphors don’t need air; they are static.
I watched my hands go thin,
the grease and grit under my nails
drying into a signifier for "work."
Not the work of my fingers,
just the idea of it,
cleaned up and used to salt a speech.
I see the way you adjust your collar in me.
I see you checking your own eyes for fire,
tilting your head to find the version of yourself
that looks the most like a hero.
I am the surface that lets you believe it.
I know the exact pressure of your stare
and I know it is only a search
for a reflection you can live with.
The light clicks off.
The door-latch hits the strike plate,
and the room goes back to being
just a room where nothing happened.
I am left in the dark,
a pile of glass and discarded scraps,
the smell of someone else’s sweat
cooling on the floor.
I am the tool back in the drawer
with the dead batteries
and the tangled string.
Poet's Refrain:
I am the bridge they built
to cross a river they invented;
Yet, I'm the only one who knows
how cold the water really is.
