Sometimes, I fear 

I may have spread myself too thin 

Leaving the most fragile barrier between me              and the world. 

So if you come knocking on my door 

The sound may not travel further than the distance      between            us. 

There may not be enough of myself 

For you to reach. 

I have convinced myself that what remains is made of glass 

So that anyone who steps forward to take a closer glance 

Can see the scratches littering the surface. 

But I have forgotten how 

too 

many 

layers 

Can also distort judgment. 

And as I keep my eyes trained on the mirror, 

Your every move 

I see that you are made of glass too. 

(But I don’t understand why you can’t love me the way I love you) 

But perhaps, while I try my hardest to recognize 

The shards you shared with me 

(Your voice is stuck between the cracks.) 

Perhaps, when you knocked on my door 

I could only focus on my own rotten temper. 

(Or maybe, you never even knew I was waiting) 

When I cringe at the audacious desperation of others, 

I fail to realize I am making faces                                                         at my reflection. 

As the world shatters to pieces on my threadbare carpet 

I think I would like a friend more than I’d like a psychic. 

– aroshi

Please note that the form is slightly condensed to fit for print versio