the glass stands between us,
polished to a mirror, patient in waiting.
i press my palms to the panes, sudden courage
met with indifference, a reminder
of a dare i can’t win.

the glass keeps my voice thin,
each plea returned as hollow reverberation;
as if to scold, it hisses back:
“you don’t want what waits out there,”
swallowing me whole into its dull drone.

the glass teaches me stillness;
no cracks to prod, no doors to open,
a silent dwelling where i lean my ear
hoping for a knock, a glance, a call,
someone to peer in and witness my ruin.

the glass teaches me avoidance,
a stern eye cast from my own reflection;
i slink to corners, shrink to outskirts,
revel in the safety of obscurity,
content to remain unseen.

the glass turns to a shield;
if no one sees me, no one wounds me.
if no one touches me, no one leaves me.
if no one reads me, no one remakes me.
i call it safety, though it tastes of rust.

the glass begins to whisper my name,
a dim echo promising a false sanctuary;
its walls widen into chambers of reflection,
yet i mistake their emptiness for comfort,
a haven, a harbor, for weathering the storm.

the glass tells me i need no one else and
i believe it, a shapeless friend who never demands;
its stagnant air a blanket i cradle,
its voice repeating soft as breath:
“stay here, i’m all you need.”

the glass becomes the keeper of dreams,
the only compassion i dare request; me
and my glass room dissolve the noise,
the chatter, the laughter, the world outside,
and the self who might have broken it down.