There's a dirty pane of glass between us. I can clean and wash and wipe and rise all I want but it's still sitting there. I grit my teeth and tear my clothes but there is just layer after layer of cloth wrapped around me, like a terribly soft prison. There, in front of me, but suddenly I'm a cotton-mouthed ghost with nothing more to say. I sit suspended in time, haunting an immobile moment and watch as the rest rushes past.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes hoping to shed it like the dreams that brought it, playing unwanted scenarios in my subconscious mind. My most vulnerable moments. My feet are cement, not dipped within it. There is no opportunity for speed.
There's a photo album with empty pages. Fill me, fill me, fill me. I pray.
Here is my wound. Bind it, loose it. See me bleed and watch my face. I will not flinch. I will not flinch for you. You probably have the sutures, but I won't hold my breath. Fill me, fill me, fill me. I pray.