Glass

Every single person talks.
their lies pile up
like rice in the
unkept yellow pantry's corner.
Slowly they pile up until,
my glass coffin shatters
and with it
all my trust
in the true
Grace of Death.

Betrayal creeps
with a serrated knife
polished with blood
until it shines
like the moon.
It isn't enough
to leave terrifying
red and white snakes
along my skin.
Instead it digs deeper
cutting my heart
to the shreds
my skin mirrors

I dream
of a prism
coffin prison
to lay my
bleeding,
trusting
remains in.
This is the
only place
lies can't
reach them