glass house

By: Emma Corcoran

1.

i do not take risks. 

but you,

you became my unexpected exception. 

 

covered myself with

thick layers of superficial skin,

artificially sanitising my senses,

and apologising

to something that

couldn’t

respond,

i let you step through that door,

my glass house.

effortless like apathetic sympathy,

you stole me – 

but only for a moment.

 

2.

incomplete blueprint of

meaningless

scribbled sketches on napkins

i had found on the floor,

maps the geography of my convoluted

mind

but

even i can’t understand it.

 

3.

i neglected

to make

an escape plan.

no bother, 

i’m not

going

anywhere.

 

4.

when the man asks me

how i want to spend

our sessions,

i think

i want to lie down and sleep

but i really mean

fix me.

 

5.

my brain

likes the taste of

chemical imbalance

and

the fear that

comes with

 

loving

 

myself.

 

6.

lying beside you,

woke up to a voice and a cord.

so worried that i took up

too much space,

i couldn’t hear the music.

 

7.

i liked the feeling

of you – 

your arms wrapped around my waist,

the way you

tucked my hair back into place, and

kissing every part of me,

you made me feel

like i existed

like i stood a chance.

 

8.

what’s wrong

nothing’s wrong

something’s not right

we aren’t right.

 

i’m not right.

 

9.

with each touch,

my glass house quivered,

shook silently

like a smile in between the

dry heaves

or

maybe

a whimper.

and i could feel it,

caught in the undertow

wrapping around my throat, squeezing

white knuckles

cutting crisscrossed patterns into my flesh

tiny crescent moons

the glass cracking,

split spider-webbed fissures

obstructing my view of the outside,

crevices filled with blood – 

 

my blood.

 

10.

I fought it.

 

I latched onto the

fragmented pieces of me

that I pretended to call my own,

let slurring complicated messes of words

remind me that

i was nothing without it,

not really,

just some kind of a

nameless identity

wash-up chewed swallowed and spit back up

that can feel

nothing

and everything,

something that

blinks and breaths

but does not

live,

would not know

how to

 

even if

it tried.

 

i let it tell me not to try

because

it wasn’t worth

the shame the embarrassment or

disappointing

you.

 

11.

how do you tell the one you love

that you can’t love him

because your brain tells you not to. 

 

12.

so i let you go.

on your way out

careful not to slam the door shut

and break

my precious glass house. 

because how do you put back together

something

that's already broken.

 

you escaped me,

the fragile memory that

you gave up trying to remember,

let

disappear,

slip softly

 

beneath the

surface of your

 

mind

and

 

gradually,

 

the hole in my heart that

you had

filled,

 

it emptied

 

and reopened.

 

13.

an irrelevant thought,

a delicious nightmare – 

my mind, the disturbed safe haven.

 

my mind,

the glass house.

ST.ART Magazine