Lying
on the floor,
Dangerously
close to the fireplace,
Trapped
inside its chipped wooden frame,
Topped
with a sprinkling of glass.
There,
it is a better representation of
Who
we are.
Everything
about that photograph is wrong.
Who
are those smiling people?
They
are certainly not like that now.
They
are strangers to me,
And
strangers to each other.
And
that unblemished white background?
It
shouldn't be white at all.
It
should be stained with midnight tears,
Cut
up with sharp words,
And
clouded by the silence that hangs in the air,
The
aftermath of a huge mistake.
I
would much rather have taken a pair of scissors,
And
cut those people apart from each other,
And
scattered them in the blizzard
That
whips hungrily outside my window as I speak.
I
would rather sacrifice the photographic shreds
To
the claws of that ravenous beast
So
that it may snatch them up
And
take them far away from this place.
But
I can't.
So
I just let the frame fall from my hands
Onto
the fake laminate
And
hope that, by shattering the glass,
I
can give those people a chance
To
breathe
Instead
of suffocating beneath
Their
smiling masks.
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