Scraping the Windshield

Hate is solution enough.

The ballerina with her toes sewn to her eyelids. Dances still the same. Legs in the air. Eyes blinking too fast. To see.

Everyone laughing.

Alone comes in stitches. Eager needles slowly pushing through drifting skin. Healing nothing. Only keeping the blood contained. Alone listens. Carefully. An ambivalent camera recording the rampant disease. I try to blame it, but it has proof that it's only me.

The conversations are nothing. Distractions temper the clay. For soft hands. To dig in. Give it shape. Find the face in the nothing.

Listen.

As if I can still hear. Anything they're saying.

Scraping away the cold from the glass. Brief. Blind luxuries called men.

Pretending to see.

How cold it is.