Whispers in a Glass House

We live in a house of glass,

where every word might shatter walls.

Sunlight bends through our silence,

casting shadows of what we cannot say.

In this transparent cage,

I watch you move like a cautious bird,

wings clipped by expectations

that neither of us chose to bear.

We live in a house of glass,

where tears streak down invisible panes.

Your sobs echo off fragile corners,

a desperate opera I dare not interrupt.

I trace my fingers along cool surfaces,

searching for a latch, a way to reach you.

But every touch leaves a smudge,

a record of my clumsy attempts.

We live in a house of glass,

where families peer in from outside.

Their breath fogs up our windows,

obscuring the view of our true selves.

In this crystalline construct,

we tiptoe around sharp edges of truth,

fearing the day when pressure builds

and our delicate shelter implodes.

We live in a house of glass,

but I dream of open fields and honest winds.

Where voice can rise and fall freely,

and love isn't measured by what remains unsaid.

Until then, I'll whisper to the walls,

hoping someday you'll hear me through

the glass:

"I'm here.

I'm scared.

I'm trying."

Words too heavy for our fragile home.