I dwell beneath a dome of glass,
Where no one hears the smallest sound;
I watch the living world go past,
And mourn the self that can’t be found.
Day after day, my throat turns clay,
My lungs press hard against my chest;
I spend my breath, then give away
The little strength I had for rest.
No one must know that I am known,
No face should turn because I’m near;
I find my comfort all alone,
Yet ache for someone else to hear.
A silver crack divides the dark,
A narrow wound, a line of clear;
One stranger pauses at the mark,
And all my longing turns to fear.
The moment that their gaze is turned,
My frightened heart forgets its will;
The scream inside me, nearly burned,
Falls back into its careful still.
I try to hide, but walls are wide,
There is no shadow left to go;
The glass has kept me safe inside,
The crack has let the daylight show.
I want to be seen, but not displayed,
A shape half-lost between the rain;
I want the hand, but am afraid
Of being held too long in pain.
I want my voice to cross the air,
Yet not become another’s word;
I want a witness standing there,
But not the burden of being heard.
Pick me up like an old toy,
Turn me gently in the day;
Do not mend me, or destroy—
Just know I lived, then put away.
Let dust return to dust and rust,
Let silence fold around my name;
Let someone touch me once with trust,
Then leave me as I was, the same.
For I have learned the art to breathe
Where no one answers when I call;
A private grief, too tired to grieve,
Still presses both hands to the wall.
So let the passing world still pass,
And let the quiet keep its sound;
I’ll mourn myself beneath the glass,
Alive, unseen, and still unfound.
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