I Am Glass

I always loved the metaphor of a glass. It is one material that allows you to see through it, while at the same time shows your reflection. It is also the one material that is very hard to put back together once cracked. I like to think of myself as a piece of that fractured glass. I, like most of us, have been broken several times, and like most pieces of glass can cut if you try to put me back together. I have lost my clear reflection, and at times wish I was on the other side of myself.  However, in my fractured state, I still reflect light through me, and unto people in multiple directions. I can also bend light until it separates into a spectrum of colours. Therefore, my readers, I welcome you to look through me and unto yourselves, as I tell you about my reflections. You may bleed and pieces of me might get stuck in your fingers, but I promise you that you will see the world through a whole new lens.


What seamed so familiar

What seemed so familiar now seems so strange

The apartment walls, your fingers painted red

How I now sit on the floor inste
ad of your bed.

The way your eyes no longer meet my gaze14102304_1769629569916836_8895857159441204091_n

Hiding all those expressions on your face

That used to tell me when to wrap my hands around you or to leave you alone

How I no longer recognize the person or the place I once called home


My bus tickets, the languages learned, the shopping sprees

All parts of you that somehow become parts of me

All cleared from your table – replaced with someone else


All so foreign now, all so empty and all so strange


Empty just like the room that I moved in many years ago

Where I put my bag down and starred at these barren walls

For which I sold my home, my past, for a dream and a change

A room too once belonging to someone else


I remember crying for weeks on end

Not recognizing the places or people I did not know

Strangers whose expressions too I could not read

And whose lives that seemed to me so strange

But many sleepless nights later and talks on the stairs

Sharing our scars and stories and laying our hearts bare

Decorated these walls with memories

For a broken heart lets people in more easily

Making this room a little less empty and a little less strange


So today on when I sit bus leaving your home

Feeling the emptiness of leaving all that I have known

I’d smile at the stranger whose eyes so seam so unfamiliar

And hope that in time somethings so strange can too become so familiar

What that is like (Spoken word piece)

To the most feminine girl I have ever seen, what is it like to be you? How does it feel to be in the centre of attention when you walk into the room?

How does it feel to fit so tightly into boxes of expectations that years of magazines and media had set for you?

Or do you too feel lonely, knowing that those eyes can only reach a skin deep reflection of who you are?

Do you too find yourself cutting parts of yourself out to fit into those razor perceptions?

But I will never know what that feels like fully.


To the most masculine man in the room, how does it feel like to be the pinnacle of power?

To know that your voice will count over everyone else’s’ in this room?

Or do you feel cursed to never be able to show a sign of weakness or vulnerability, to know that a single tear, can negate years of masculinity that even privilege of your body cannot defend?

I will never know what it is like to be you fully.


To people with stable homes, the one with perfect families? Do you take it for granted, knowing that your blood will always be thicker than water?

Or do you too find it constantly rejected every time you try to let it flow through your body?

Or do you too thicken a bond with people , who may never flow in your veins, but find their way into your heart through a common path of pain, rejection, and struggle?

I will never know what that feels like fully.


To people with heteronormative sexualities, how does it feel like to hold your partner’s hand in public, never being afraid of what would be said to you?

Or do you too experience, the love that is rarely shown in pictures, and touch bodies that are carved with stories deeper than any book you have ever read?

Or do you too find yourself fighting passionately for the life you lead, and the love you so deeply defend?

I will never know what it is to be you fully.


To people who fit into a single culture, country, and religion, what is it like to belong to a community larger than yourself?

Do you too find it hard not to question all that has been fed to you?

Or do you too are afraid of violating as single convention in a risk of rejections?

I will never know what it feels like to be you fully.


For you see my world has no rules or boundaries. My colours run free past all those lines, painting a life fat beyond the one this world defines.

For you see the same rules hat tie you together can also suffocate.

For the same binds that ones exclude can also liberate.

And you may not know what that freedom feels like fully.