Lying on the floor,
Dangerously close to the fireplace,
Trapped inside its chipped wooden frame,
Topped with a sprinkling of glass.
There, it is a better representation of
Who we are.
Everything about that photograph is wrong.
Who are those smiling people?
They are certainly not like that now.
They are strangers to me,
And strangers to each other.
And that unblemished white background?
It shouldn't be white at all.
It should be stained with midnight tears,
Cut up with sharp words,
And clouded by the silence that hangs in the air,
The aftermath of a huge mistake.
I would much rather have taken a pair of scissors,
And cut those people apart from each other,
And scattered them in the blizzard
That whips hungrily outside my window as I speak.
I would rather sacrifice the photographic shreds
To the claws of that ravenous beast
So that it may snatch them up
And take them far away from this place.
But I can't.
So I just let the frame fall from my hands
Onto the fake laminate
And hope that, by shattering the glass,
I can give those people a chance
Instead of suffocating beneath
Their smiling masks.