I'm staring through a glass wall,
at the man I want like laughter-
like a cloudy, blank-page Sunday morning,
waiting to be filled with love songs
and dancers,
holding each other with their eyes.

Every time you get close,
I run behind this window to the world
and scribble words on its smooth face
in backwards code-
they read as though they're his,
but they're not.

They're hot-stove memories
that make me push you away
the best way I know how-
with carefully arranged letters and phrases
covering what's least protected.

By running away,
I only show how easily you reach me,
and touch the tender places I hide
beneath black leather and a hard-rock attitude.

But I'm slowly learning,
what I thought was safety
is nothing more than another cage-
and I'm tired of living in a zoo,
watching ice-cream smeared children
hold out peanuts I can't reach.

So it's time-
time to stop using words as shields
and start using them as hammers,
shatter this glass
and trade safety for freedom, and love-

and a cloudy Sunday morning.

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