Life Through The Glass

with my hands clenched tightly to the window-sill, with my eyes wide open staring at the sun,
i sit.

my view is broken by 2 white pieces of wood sitting perfectly perpendicular against my dusty window of glass. i open my mouth, only to find that the window has become fogged. with the tip of my finger, i wipe away the moisture. it's on my finger now. swiftly, it starts to disappear. mouth. window. finger. mouth. window. finger.

i scream, unheard. i blink, unseen. outwards, i reach my hand, painfully untouched, i contract it back. i touch my cheek to know i exist. even inside a world of windows, i can't truly see. everything has a rainbow glazed over it's colors. when it rains, it leaks. when it snows it blocks. a greenhouse with no plants. a dome i call home. big white blankets draped over all the chairs. comfort never looked so dry, so lonely, so unused. i see them walk, they talk the drive. they don't see me, here in a house made of glass.

one way mirrors never did any harm. some one on the other side? please don't ring the alarm.