If I could scrub away all the muck from
my palette of lies, like the smudges on the glass
ballroom floor, I'd be perfect. Too perfect, that
any can see my reflection, my transparency;
everyone would know me - how to hurt
my tender feelings are like the splotches,
left from the dust on the soles of my feet.
I used to dance with a free soul, on this floor
or glass, so perfect and smooth - not a ripple
to be seen among the ocean.
If I were scratchless, scarless,
my body would be a shield to the refugee
who could never step into the light of day.
But like the floor, I can never be fully cleansed
of the lies I smear. Each one is worse then the last
and the harder I scrub, more comes from the dirt
on my shoes. While I leave a trail of soap,
someone else walks into the ballroom and admires
the seeming perfection and gives more impurity
to this room, I am always summoned and given
the task to scrub. Scrub, wash, rinse, all similar
words under one meaning. That is my sentence
for life passes on, while I rot away in my own empty
chasm that is the glass floor. I cannot dance
away my worries, for another stain shows where my shoe left
a mark, also from just my bear feet squeaking
as I slide along. My bare hands leave finger prints, so small
no one will notice, will they? I do.
But you don't.
You prance into the hall of pure
glass, like your heart. Transparent, but your own.
Wearing it like a cape flying behind you, it shields
what you fear, what you love, from the demon
smudges. They don't register. And you take my hand
from the sponge and you tell - no, command - that I laugh.
So I do. For you are new to me, strange in your own accord,
but I like that. You know how to dance across
the glass without a smudge, only pure, and pull me along.
You show my prison, glass ballroom, has purpose
and use. A chore at times, but nothing is complete
in its purity. Everyone has some smudges.
While we dance, the perfect motions, there is a split
in the glass floor where my soul was too free, too
daring and I crumble along with it.
But you pick me up, dust it off the floor and
"Everything breaks, has a point it cannot go on
any longer. It may be done for good. But know that
if something has broken, it has served its purpose
to the fullest. Don't be afraid to break a little -
it's how you get out of your shell."