Glass House

I am a glass house.

It seems like you can see

right through.

Spires of joy,

windows of cheer,

my bright light shining through the dark.

So simple,

so peaceful,

so easy to understand.

Inside the glass house

lives a hidden beast.

Wrapped in a dark shadow,

he hides himself well.

Within rooms of crystal structure

and colored diamond walls,

he festers and hides to whisper in my heart.

Lies that sound like truths

and truths that sound like lies.

His voice passes beyond my hands

seeping through my fingers

pressed hard on my ears.

The glass house has many halls,

and he lurks in them all.

No matter where I run,

where I hide,

he finds me.

The whispers increase,

beating a rhythm in my chest,

pounding ideas in my head.

“Not enough”

“No good”

“Not worthy”

“Deserve death”

They won’t leave my house,

no matter how I plead.

When he pounds on my doors,

it builds in my head.

The need to feel.

To escape.

To go.

Lies, but true.

Persistent and unending.


Not until I bring pain.

With flash of silver-grey,

Pale canvas slashed down in desperation.

Red will drip down,

dark on the crystal floors.

If I am not found, then sweet release is close.

I am a glass house.

Only now I have worked to rid my mind

of the shadowed man.

He still lurks in the halls,

Lies darting like a tongue

of a lizard eating prey.

His voice still seeps in,

sickly sweet and intoxicating,

and I want to give in.

But hope is not lost now.

I was saved before,

I am saved now.

So when you look to my glass house,

You will see tall spires

and colored windows,

and halls lined with diamonds.

Don’t be fooled.

The shadow man still lives.

But now you can see him too.




pain, lots of pain

cold, wet


cry, scream, wail, then-





Soothing noises,

“mom” and “dad”

react to cries,

feed the strange feeling inside.





Mommy whispers to me,

I say back “ma-ma”

She coos, I giggle

Where did she go?

There she is!

Hugs and warmth.

Blankets and toys.

Daddy kisses my head.


Steps are hard,

bump goes the baby.

Step, step, fall.

Step, step, fall.

Smile at Mommy,

smile at Daddy.

Cry when it hurts

I cry, they give me things

smiles and warmth.


Now that I walk and talk,

they are busy more.

I drew some pictures,

but mommy was busy.

She is always busy.

Daddy came home-

he yells that I drew on the wall.

I thought it was paper.


School is too long-

it makes my feet itchy.

Mrs. Teacher tells me to sit,

but my feet don’t want to.

She tells me to count.

My mommy taught me 9-1-1

I told her that.

Mrs. Teacher said I need more numbers.


Mom and Dad aren’t home when I am.

The house is empty.

Too quiet.

I eat peanut butter and fluff for dinner,

unless they come home.

They usually don’t.


It makes me sad-

my friends can’t come over.

Their parents don’t like me,

don’t like my mommy and daddy.

I can’t go to their houses either.

At least one of them likes me.

He says he wants to kiss me

and get married.

I told him I liked him enough

but I’m too little.

He pushed me down.

I don’t know if he still likes me.


Quiet is normal here.

I talk to myself a lot.

No one answers back.

Sometimes my echo does.

Mom and Dad don’t talk much.

Usually they yell.

I hide.


Knowing things is hard.

When I raise my hand at school,

the teacher looks at me funny.

All I said was that I knew about beer

and cigarettes and fighting.

We were talking about families.

That’s what my family is.

She looked worried,

I don’t know why.

I love my family.


I like to hide in my room-

if Dad comes home early,

he gets mad at the TV instead of me.

Or Mom.

He gets mad at Mom a lot.

School would be great-

but those kids who know my parents,

they make jokes about it.

I have to be my own friend.


You learn the tricks as you age-

if you smell alcohol, run.

The bedroom door locks most of the time.

and something else will distract him.

Bruises fade-

cuts heal.

Concealer can hide the scars.

Eventually, I get to use 911.

Not the first time.

Maybe the last.


I can’t date,

my father set the rule.

Even when he isn’t there,

I can’t break it.

My mom worries.

I sneak out to kiss them under the stars.

Parked cars, lonely streets.

Someday they go too far.

I won’t date again.


He is gone forever now.

That’s what the judge said.

I don’t trust her.

I know my Dad better than she does.

How does she know about him?

What could she know?

They asked me too many questions-

like, “what did you do when your Dad came home?”

“did you make him mad?”

Why would I do that?

I told them they were stupid for asking.

They didn’t give me any cookies.


Driving should be fun.

But a mother who insists you aren’t safe?

She makes it difficult.

She screams, just like he did,

but without the beer.

The only safe place is in the mind,

a place where nobody hurts.

Everyone is kind.

If only it were real.


Independence is sweet,

so unbelievably sweet.

Obligations are a small price to pay.

The freedom to finally exist.

Air is sweeter now,

one can almost imagine one is normal.

At least I try.

Who cares if I seem upset.

Or angry.

Or anxious.

Nothing wrong with that.


This area is safe-

at least somewhat.

I know the people around,

but they don’t always come across as “safe”.

The man across the street only comes across at night.

He sits in his window.

So do I.

Classes distract me.

I watch them carefully anyway.


Sometimes I think I’m going crazy.

Why doesn’t anyone else hear that noise?

It hurts to listen to.

My professor seems mad when I write that,

maybe the course review was a bad idea.

But no one else reacts.

Not to the noise,

not to the black shadows that follow them,

and me…


Some of my friends tell me to calm down.



“You are too strung up, don’t know what you’re saying”

No, you are strung up.

I am right.

I am.

They are wrong, but I care about them anyway.

Because that’s what good people do.


Sometimes they tell me I should find “help”.

What is this help?

Some lady telling me my brain is wrong and shoving pills down my neck?

I don’t want that help.

I’m not crazy.

The world is crazy.

I am not crazy.


In my psych class, they talked about things.

I knew them.

Like, sometimes you hear things

things that nobody else can hear.

Those are the best things to listen to.

And the things no one else sees.

They talk like they are bad.

I know better.

They are glorious.


They took me there when I tried to fly out the window

The sky was just so blue

and I knew I could touch the clouds if I tried.

The doctor gave me some kind of meds-

it might actually be helping

but I can’t tell.

The way my head feels fuzzy just feels weird.

I think I like being clear better.


I got out.

Barely, but they don’t need to know that.

The doctor let me go.

My apartment is still waiting for me-

Mom likes to take care of me.

I wish she would leave me alone.

But I like the apartment.

I didn’t want to move.


I can’t do the meds anymore.

I can’t be fuzzy and fat.

I want that clarity.

It was so freeing

I could see/do/experience


They don’t understand how glorious it is

The freedom.

The bad parts are hard-

I don’t like being so scared,

but I know everything when I’m clear.


The college let me go-

I was gone too long.

Screw them.

I don’t care anymore

I just want out of this controlling stupid place in this controlling stupid city

I think Ill hitchhike to another one.

I can go anywhere.

I can be anywhere.

I can do anything.

I can see everything.


I went on the public bus today.

It was dirty and clean and connected in the cosmos

and no one looked at me like I was crazy.

I pretended to look out the window,

but I was actually looking at the lights.

They flickered on the glass.

No one else seemed to see them.

I’ve been chosen to understand it

the mysteries of the universe.

All of them.

All of the connections.

I can see it all.


It’s a new city, a new place.

I have a new home.

Mom left me money when she died.

They said suicide.

I know better.

But I’ll take the money they give me.

Until I can prove they are tracking me.

Because I am smarter than them.

I am always smarter than them.


It followed me home today, I know it did. I know because I saw it follow me- what was that sound?

It was a creek, a crack, a bending of the board that tells me a person is here in the apartment.

I need to stay awake today, I need to be up to fight them off whoever they are.

I have a gun. And a stick. Ill use the stick first. Not the gun. Because I am a pacifist.

But they are here, I know that for sure the door is unlocked. The door was locked when I left.

I know they are here I know it all I know it all I know they want to get me I know I know I know


I know it was there

The blue dragon. Im supposed

To slay it.

Milky white skin on red backgrounds of cherries

The dog woke me up again

I told the neighbors I would shoot it and they

Tried to say they didn’t have a dog

But I know they lie they are spies of the

Overarching government. I know it they all want

Me to die I told them all.


It’s the hospital again I know

They just want to inject me

Make me like them nonononono

I wont do it scratch and tair

Thair milk is yukky probably because of the cows

That were abducted help I don’t like them and

I don’t want to be there.


They call me crazy.

They think I’m sick.

I’m not sick.

I’m not



Something Said

Something I hear a lot:

Not enough.

Not good enough.

Not strong enough.

Not sick enough.


Not sick enough?

What does that mean?

I am sick.

My brain rebels against me.

My body self-destructs.

When I say “I have diabetes”,

I get all the concern in the world.

When I hear comments,

they are compassionate and over protective.

But when I say “I have anxiety”,

the response is wrong.


Is it because my anxiety is mild?

Is it because my panic is quiet?

Close, but not quite normal?

I have no pills to swallow,

there are no open panic attacks.

All I have is anxiety.

When I say that,

what I experience becomes invalid.

What I feel becomes invalid.

I become invalid.

And it’s not just me-

I hear it everywhere.

Not anxious enough.

Not depressed enough.

Not traumatized enough.

Not hurt enough.

Why are we like that?

Why is it the degree of pain that validates?

I feel pain.

But why is my physical pain valid,

when my emotions are not?

I don’t understand.

This makes no sense.

Philosophically, I can trace social thought-

separation of mind and body,

human soul in meat machine,

but when did that switch?

When did the body outweigh the mind?

This idea feels wrong.

The mind should be protected.



Then maybe the pain can finally end.