house of cards
i see now that my life is a house of cards. my apartment walls, once neat and whitewashed, are laid bare. i see pipes, wiring and naked stone. i look at myself in the mirror and where i expect skin, i see red muscle. sinew stretched on bone, impossibly taut and thin, fragile, ready to snap. blood barely shielded by paper-thin arteries. my ribs like iron bars, my organs behind them like prisoners.
my words feel sharp, and i see them pierce your brain, dominoes falling, never to rise again. its better to keep quiet. my deeds feel violent, dangerously barging into the room, such a fragile room. perhaps i will smash a rusty pipe with a gesture, or break the floor with a heavy step. i dont know how to talk to you when i see right through your skin. i dont know how to touch you when my hands come to rest on muscle and bone. like a wrench thrown into clockwork. like a hacksaw taken to wrapping paper. like a grindstone on an infants head. i am a weapon. i vow to never use myself. i am too scared to knock down the load-bearing card that props up all i know.