Not again—the dream has found me,
wearing glass gloves I cannot remove.
Nails painted red, like defiance caged.
A storm brimming beneath smooth frost.
Every movement feels steeped in danger,
touch heavy with the weight of harm.
Like flame in ice, I war with purpose,
this glittered trap I neither chose nor broke.
Now, I cannot clean the house, cannot
brush dirt from corners without shattering,
cannot cradle soft things to my chest,
their edges tremble, my surface cracks.
I learned to wield my hands like tools,
made for labor, stitched into this life—
but now, they are prisons, beautiful rooms,
it hurts to hold, but how could I let go?