Glass Gloves

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?