In the window, I see my little self,
struggling with my pj's, discourteously outgrown,
sleeves restraining the blood in my arms,
squeezing until my toes go numb.
What dreams I had for a lack of nerves,
my heart pumping, but my head often light,
pressing into the thin, wispy air,
blinds shut tight, light blades sliding around,
in marching lines across my face,
as I imagine, even as I see a portrait of she before me.
Full in fear of exposure in the open,
labeled and left wholly broken,
if I have no tears to give,
what heart would choose to shift?
Is it a noble protest of the current culture,
to display and expose all that was precious,
distorting it like an island in the telescope,
mistaking a person for a sighting,
a broken piece of my life for a warning sign?
I wonder who would be more confused,
my disconnected state of self,
or a reader's digest flashy front page?
if my stories read as the page in front of you,
would my face reach you through the mess,
or would my self get lost in the signal?
