Inside the Snow Globe

Back when I was little

I thought the snow globe on my windowsill

Was amusing; I would shake it

Until the glitter started to swirl,

And I would watch it

Until it settled upon the rosy nose, and the dewy skin,

And the mittened hands of the little person

That I once adored so truly.

 

Time passed us by

And with it fled the days when

I thought the snow globe on my windowsill

Was amusing; I would leave it

Stationary before the window that moved up and down,

And I would give it

A fraction of a second’s worth of attention and then the usual

Eternal apathy, for staring out at freedom

Encased in a window did better than

Staring into confinement materialized into a snow globe.

 

Calendar dates faded out

Parallel to the kind smile on the person’s face

Whom I used to love so dearly when

I thought the snow globe on my windowsill

Was amusing; I could see its

Periwinkle blue innocence turn into indigo bruises

And I could sense its

Eyes projecting flashes of maniacal humour until it dragged me

By the collar of my nightgown inside the

Condemned, demented, cursed

Snow globe, away from the independence

That I once cherished so heartily

 

Time stands still

As I exist, curled up against glass which has

Curvature and not straightness; how could

I ever think the snow globe on my windowsill

Was amusing? I beg it,

Dropping to my knees, crossing my trembling hands, for mercy,

And I hear it

Laugh with coldness that couldn’t be found in

The snowiest of globes, while it chants that it has none to spare.

Timely, it drags me to the centre for the spectators

To rip me of all dignity with their atrocious terms,

As it counts reasons why I deserve so on his fingers, cackling.

I watch the glitter lose sparkle and become dust, and I realize

Women loving beasts into men exist only in fairy tales

 

Because man is only a choice away from monster.

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