the room bent at the corners,
walls breathing in and out.
everyone i loved was there,
but their faces flickered,
like static on a broken screen.
i held a glass cup.
it pulsed in my hand,
warm, alive.
i knew if i moved even slightly,
it would split open.
and it did.
not shattering,
but unfolding,
splinters sliding into my skin
like they belonged there.
i tried to cry out,
but my voice came out in glass,
sharp shards that cut the air
before falling at my feet.
i whispered,
“i don’t know what i did,”
“this really hurts,”
but they only smiled,
eyes blank as mirrors.
their mouths opened wide
and spoke in one voice:
“we don’t see what you see.”
and for a moment
i saw him in the corner,
the one i still love
even though love has gone sour.
he didn’t speak,
just watched me bleed,
his silence heavier
than any shard in my skin.
then i looked again,
and my hands were gone.
only blood and light
spilled from where they should’ve been.
and in the glow of it,
everyone raised their cups,
whole, gleaming,
as if nothing had ever broken.
