glass house

yours is an ugly history

and i do not know why

you would choose to share it with anyone

let alone me

with my unpredictable attention

my wayward compassion

my compulsion

for seduction

and inept philosophy

why would you throw three such stones

there, at my feet

do i appear to be accomodationg

or, in some way, lacking

unable to put things back where they are meant to be:

fear, being the heaviest,

its surface craggy

grief, the smoothest

and love, there at the center,

broken and holding light in captivity

i do not need nor want it

i have my own stones, you see