you spend your mornings tinkering
with the illusions that color the rust-
covered world around you,
spilling paint over a shivering grin and
inkwell eyes -
how you long to be
something that you cannot;
glue those gossamer wings to
your bed of dreams and
ride them through
always-gray skies.
you learn a lot about people with
their back against the wall.
who else will you let go as easily
as you sacrificed yourself?