I live in a glass room.
with my angry television
my loving books
an unstable bedframe
and solidarity coat hooks.

I rarely leave, or bring it with me.
the clear blessings of my youth,
however when I speak
in laundry heaps
loose strings caught on tooth.

flapping tongues  and ladder rungs.
I'm screaming up the stairs
while balanced by a pony-tail
and
"Cut your ******* hair".

but why?

where else would I keep these ideas when the water hits the top of this glass box?