Hands spread open,

a small reaching out,

your reflection a shadow

of what you swore you once were

painted on the glass

In shades of promises.

Only cold seeps into your flesh

Warmth taken from your emptying bank

Holding a glass hand

Like It’s your tourniquet

Because the other hands

Left you bleeding

Only a darkening windowpane,

but it choked away your feeling,

breaking you down,

a loneliness digesting

the self that you had,

and no one saw it go.

So bundle the feeling

in a coat sewed from solitary walks,

whose needles scratch at your heart

when you pull it closer

than your boundaries permitted

any living thing to perforate.