Four panes of glass separate
myself.
I wear them like
a box,
switching between
the masks.
But your words
have weight.
They press
and tap,
each tap
clatters the panes
in a shackling manner.
When the eyes ink
over from years
of smudging,
rubbing
only makes it worse.
I flinch
as a snap
attacks.
Grim leaks
and seeps
onto the floor
as I climb.
The walls get slick
as my feet stick
and the muck
keeps me
inside.