Written for ‘The Mighty‘ in January 7, 2019
I sometimes live in a glass box.
It’s not like a greenhouse where healthy things grow, twisting up until they poke out of the top, wanting to reunite with the sun and never stop rising. It’s the opposite. Nothing good grows inside of the glass box; nothing comes from the glass walls that shield me in.
It’s lonely with no one else inside of it; it’s difficult to find the exit, even if it’s staring me in the face. I stand alone inside, trembling as I bite down on my lip. I can feel the glass coming in, ready to press coldly against my skin until a shiver runs down my spine, reminding me no one but I can save me.
Through the glass, I can see people, and often I will find myself watching them. They’ll be laughing and smiling, and I find my lips curling up into something similar — but I have no idea why.