it's like glass in your eyes

Even if I could clear my throat and ask the question, I'd know the answer.

"Hello ma'am, can I help you with anything?" She doesn't like that question.
"No, I'm just looking."

And she'd turn around and walk out the door. People like to look at clothes because they always change but they never look back. You don't gotta say a thing to them as they sit in their display case. Scoff at the ones you hate and smile at the ones you like, it's no different to them.

"Close your eyes,
the dark outside can't hurt you,
and I'll never desert
your bedside.

So close them tight,
the stars are so glad
they've found you,
and all the blankets that surround you
shine their light,
shine their light.

So rest your head,
and I'll be watching
from the doorway
as you slip into a perfect
peaceful sleep.

And morning will come
in all its simple glory,
and you will find
the light.

And I will be there,
standing in your shadow,
knowing that you once
were mine.

All mine.
My baby.
My baby.
My girl."

There are caves out there in uncharted wilderness that have never smelled the putrid stench of a human being. If I seek them out and find that they reek of sulfur and are littered with arachnids, do I have the right to say, "I hate this cave for what it holds inside?" It was my choice to step within that cold jacket of rock. Sometimes seeking out the answer makes your stomach churn, but I suppose that's the risk you run when you don't want to make up lies any longer. To have the directions always available for you when you're walking down some unknown road in an uncivilized, dreary, tree-lined sretch makes it easier. Some people (like the one I know best [or perhaps the worst]) have no answers to anything. They just stumble on their bare feet down the wet and crooked rocks as the mist sprinkles every branch and face in stars.

I remember photos in my head long faded. Walking up a mile long stretch of road in the mountains with a girl in blue pants and a white visor. I was so young and clumsy. I'm so young and clumsy. I remember simpler voices, softer hands, kinder eyes. When you are deceived as a child, you forget what has happened. Time passes through your life like wind through an open window, but the pane starts to slowly slide down until the gaping hole has become more of a keyhole. Then the wind whistles and pounds and shrieks with horror each time you are wronged from then on. It happened once, you were just unable to hear it.

I hate painting my self portrait because I have to make the same mistakes that reality made all over again. I have to look at myself and say, "That's not what you look like you stupid shit, stop trying to idealize yourself," and I turn the tone more red or a darker brown. But once I admit to every mistake with each stroke, it starts to look beautiful because it is is a replica of reality. If I could admit to every problem, would my soul become more beautiful? Would I be more attractive? No, people do not appreciate what's important.

I dreamed I was lying on the ground and I was crying and screaming, "I want to die," and Alyssa stood over me and said, "I would bet you do." And I picked up a glass bottle and hit it gently on my forehead and said, "No, no." So Alyssa picked up a hammer that was sitting on my shelf and handed it to me so I'd hit myself with the sharp part. I twisted it around and held it up and said, "Not high enough." She took it out of my hand and held it up as high as she could and swung it down and I flinched and she vanished forever. I was left on my carpet just crying and crying and crying.

I spoke to an appendage of a body I once loved and it said, "I don't believe you're entirely forgotten." I said, "But you're entirely dead." She said, "Don't you believe in resurrection?" I said, "Once," and stumbled on my words. I want to. I used to have such an idealistic heart. I want to be able to dream good things again. I want to put my faith up in the air, some clay pot with beautiful and intricate design, and watch the bullets from the raging war speed by. One strikes right through the middle and it shatters into an endless number of shards and all fall straight into my eyes. It hurts worse than any feeling in the world, blinking with glass in your eyes, but it is worth it. One day I will raise my pottery and it will be able to stop bullets. They will come so close to hitting it just to realize, "It is far too beautiful to destroy." Then I can walk from my foxhole and get out of this fucking hell.

I am bad at pottery, but I work on it daily.