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Feb 2014
Society has given me a snow globe,
to wear on a ribbon round my neck.
There is nothing inside, only confetti,
in multi-coloured silk. It shimmers.
It is a beautiful gift. Thank you, Society.

This year Society said, here, have a new
snow globe. This one is bigger and the
confetti is black and grey. It still shimmers.
Here, a new chain in silver, to match.
Thank you, Society.

This snow globe is heavy, and the confetti
is bigger, it falls slower, the shimmer in
the silk doesn't quite catch the light and
the weight of it makes the chain chafe
against the back of my neck. I can't
take it off, though, that'd be strange.

I have to carry my snow globe in both
of my hands now, because it is so big.
The problem is, I haven't got any room
to carry anything else because my snow globe
is weighing me down, my hands are calloused
but I haven't a choice, I have to carry it
and smile, in case other people notice and
start to talk, as they shake their own
glittering rainbow snow globes,
that all seem so tiny and elegant,
spinning on rose and honey ribbons
around their soft white necks.

Society replaced my snow globe. This one
is made from sheets of frosted glass. I am
in the middle, with the black strips of
sharp paper around my aching feet.
Nobody else seems to notice as long as I
go about my business. That's hard to do,
because it's huge and stifling, and I'm
sure people are staring. I can't always see
through the glass, and I can't really hear,
so I get worried that they are whispering
and laughing. In fact I'm sure they are, so
I get angry, and start beating my fists
on the sides. Their blurry faces back away
in shock and what looks like disgust.
It is very lonely in the silence
of my secret glass dungeon.
Out of nowhere, the paper snow starts
falling, and it's thick and sharp, so I
curl into a ball, just until it stops.
I don't know what makes it start.
Then I haul myself from under the
dark, crinkling lake and try to brush
it all off. It gets into my hair,
and my eyes; it gets into my mouth.
In a panic I rip it off my skin
and out of my hair, scared of
all the papery precipitation clinging
to me, scared they'll see it and think
I'm not clean, or something.
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