thirteen claw-marks from that cat on the shaky marble floor

who knows, as it etches itself into a rich mans immaculate masculinity

wiping away my helplessness before it too makes its mark.

i wish they would put their shoes together

left toe touches right toe

thats the only way it can be,

just right in the invisible space in the carbon dioxide collection.

twenty-seven pennies

bitter smelling in the jar which has just reached its peak in age and dust

they are the majority within their glass prison

dignified despite their rust

meaningless in their respite,

soon to be obsolete, as he points out constantly.

oh, how the world changes.

and i have only been conscious for a tiny tick on the clock.

now, this old man, with his inflexible spectacles

lacks the view in his birds eye and peripheral

but probably considers my shadow a bad omen.

he shivers in the wake of such an evil.

my teeth click against each other, electrified with the being of that evil.

the setting is white,

or rather, a version of it, decrepit with the plaque of a pattern all too familiar.

this is my dream room.

where i find myself often

and where often i am a stranger

my letters of wonder which i design on the walls, on the solar filled floor to ceiling glass

backwards of course, in hopes that someone might read them,

have turned tired and cold,

no longer illustrate their longing

nor their greed for adrenaline

nor their want for the world.

black and chicken scratch

stationed among the randomized pauses and the seemingly infinite crack in the wallpaper

might it widen its mouth for me

as it did so slowly

so lustfully

for her?

how possible is the other side,

when the world that you breathe in suffocates you only long enough until you remind yourself in silence

to breathe again.

imprisonment feels kinder when you can see out,

even though they can see in.

shuttered away, i build upon my layers until my mind can multiply itself

sneak out its smoky tendrils and climb along the terrace,

and wail

and scream

and scream until you could hear it down the street

until each person ceased their hearts

in between beats they meet the sound of a consciousness so distinctively torn they can’t help but reconcile with their own.

but i will never reach them that way

as i did not reach her

as i did not reach you.

i wear the glass, a translucent suit of sea green and nursery blue

each time they touch me, allow their fingers to feel my life

to feel my death

to feel the imperfect atoms which make up my aloneness, the invisible filth-

they are pricked and sliced open

the way grass does on bare skin only to be noticed hours later

in me, they see themselves

and the hatred only

grows.