nail clippers come in silver
and your attitude comes in shades of battleground grey and empty parkway.
i sit over the wastebasket.
snap.
how viciously i wish that my disappointment for you could fall into plastic bags this easily.
it wouldn't make a sound.
why do you hate to look at yourself?
snap.
why do you always tear your reflection so messily from the mirror?
your shoulders shudder when you do it and you growl.
you leave glass littered in pieces all over the floor.
like headaches.
snap.
like accusations.
why does your mind roll in infrared waves like the storm systems coming in from the south?
and where do you think you're going, bundled up in bitter gazes and threadbare self-loathing?
is there some toll booth out there that accepts spare cumulonimbus for fare?
snap.
do you not know what to do with yourself when you're with me?
snap.
i don't look up at you as your hands find themselves fastened to the nearest window.
snap.
"go ahead."
snap.
i am a quiet voice in the corners of hurricanes.
"smash it then."
anything and everything you see yourself in.
snap.
don't touch me or my nail clippers, though.
\\\
