Of Hairline Fractures

These emotions are always spilling.

They are profusely surging

all over floorboards and kitchen walls

because the dams I once built

just won’t hold.

They are exposed.

They are set out openly:

a mausoleum for the broken

and a display case of messes,

and spillages,

and floods.

This circus is welcoming

to the vouyeres and the odd,

offering the opportunity to self-soothe

their own insecurities and caress

fragile egos unable to endure

reality’s frostbite.

Watch me contort myself

into wreaths of pain.

Caked in stains,

I am on parade

in my glass house

of bones and blood.

I am all messy display,

insides turned out,

all my undoings

a-flood.