For Those Who Live Like Glass
Glass feet in glass slippers shatter, just like glass bottles shot at by children in the field in some rural town where they learn to become men with guns. It's a cycle, they say. Glass houses expose the story of one who lives there, reads storybooks, puts on her glasses, and writes for the daily paper who fucks with who in politicians' beds. Her red lipstick was everywhere on him like painted on Cheshire cat grins. She got hers, and he got his, and they both get off together on the same crime. But you don't. There are so many who wear glass slippers, who break their fragile ankles by twisting them off in sidewalk crack games, outside of the glass house that cracked under it's own stones. The lie is as old as antique glass bottle necks who get shot and crack under the pressure of lies that come from it, like drainpipes who back up sludge to spill out of the tops of their mouths with filth. You can't hide behind that curtain anymore.