through the cellophane..
You see me through a shield. Your shield.
Like looking through many layers of colored cellophane. The kind that crinkles and throws colored shadows on the walls.
It doesn't matter what I say or do.
When you look, it's your own reflection you see, before your eyes even get past you.
Clouds float by turning and changing and bending in on each other, endlessly.
I am but a player, in your mind, a fragment of yourself; I am what you want to see.
Like an old slide projector dusty against the wall in the consuming dark, you project the pictures in your mind onto me.
I am the sheet your images are spread across. Wide and bright and unavoidable.
I am the eyes, the lips, that speaks your fears.
I am the body that dwells in this violently muffled illusion.
It doesn't matter what I say. It doesn't matter how I look at you. It has no consequence what I wear or how I do my hair. I can never show you who I am, unless you put your anger down, your fear aside, the pain you cling to with such might.
I will never be anything but what you make me into. I am condemned to being this weakness, these emotions. Condemned to being a reflection, in a gilded golden tarnished mirror, a cage. The prison of your choice.
In the early morning dawn, before the birds wake up, somewhere under the pale of the pinkening sky; love is being made, hands are held, babies finally sleep, the smell of coffee is filling a kitchen.
I scream at the top of my lungs. I reach out my hands, arms, fingers spread. Wanting. Reaching. Asking.
But you don't see me. Won't see me. Can't hear me. Because seeing me, means you'd have to look at yourself.
I am alone with the bitterness of the wind. Alone with the undiscovered sun.
It understands the cold. Understands the wretch of being misread, misunderstood.
I am alone with the bitterness of the wind.
Like looking through many layers of colored cellophane. The kind that crinkles and throws colored shadows on the walls.
It doesn't matter what I say or do.
When you look, it's your own reflection you see, before your eyes even get past you.
Clouds float by turning and changing and bending in on each other, endlessly.
I am but a player, in your mind, a fragment of yourself; I am what you want to see.
Like an old slide projector dusty against the wall in the consuming dark, you project the pictures in your mind onto me.
I am the sheet your images are spread across. Wide and bright and unavoidable.
I am the eyes, the lips, that speaks your fears.
I am the body that dwells in this violently muffled illusion.
It doesn't matter what I say. It doesn't matter how I look at you. It has no consequence what I wear or how I do my hair. I can never show you who I am, unless you put your anger down, your fear aside, the pain you cling to with such might.
I will never be anything but what you make me into. I am condemned to being this weakness, these emotions. Condemned to being a reflection, in a gilded golden tarnished mirror, a cage. The prison of your choice.
In the early morning dawn, before the birds wake up, somewhere under the pale of the pinkening sky; love is being made, hands are held, babies finally sleep, the smell of coffee is filling a kitchen.
I scream at the top of my lungs. I reach out my hands, arms, fingers spread. Wanting. Reaching. Asking.
But you don't see me. Won't see me. Can't hear me. Because seeing me, means you'd have to look at yourself.
I am alone with the bitterness of the wind. Alone with the undiscovered sun.
It understands the cold. Understands the wretch of being misread, misunderstood.
I am alone with the bitterness of the wind.
