The Glass House

By Anchita Jayaprakash Narayan

I despise this dwelling, where every wall, window, and door is crafted from fragile glass. A fracture echoes through the air, a testament to your deceit as you gaze into my eyes. Another resounds, marking yet another instance of your betrayal. Safety is a distant memory in this transparent fortress, susceptible to shattering at any moment.

This place is no longer a haven; it has become a symbol of your mistakes, a cacophony of cracks that mirrors the fractures in our connection. I am not sheltered beneath a fallen roof, but rather beneath the remnants of your transgressions. The pain is palpable, the darkness overwhelming. I yearn to escape this symbolic prison.

In the absence of your presence, I scream, only to be met with the piercing shards of glass. My blood flows like a river, a stark reminder of the wounds inflicted upon my soul. As the shadows close in, and my breath grows shallow, I question if this will be my demise. But no, this cannot be the end. I muster the strength to persist, urging myself not to succumb to the encroaching darkness.

My desperate plea echoes through the void, a rallying cry to awaken from this nightmare. I refuse to surrender. The glass may cut deep, but I shall not yield. My breath, though strained, persists. With blurred vision, I cling to the hope of waking from this torment.

“Don’t give up, not yet. Not yet,” I whisper to myself, fighting against the seductive embrace of unconsciousness. The mantra reverberates, urging me to wake up, to reclaim my reality from the clutches of this living nightmare.

By Anchita Jayaprakash Narayan