a hundred glass circles, flat and wide,
lined up like budget baptisms
cheap, holy, and hollow,
gaping, waiting, swallowing light.
a circle of sameness, smooth and cheap,
faces bouncing back, blank and neat.
rows of reflections stacked in line,
identical edges, factory shine.
they call it chic, they call it clean,
call it modern, call it mean.
no splinters, no cracks, no weight to bear,
just frames of people who stand and stare.
edges too smooth, too bloody smooth,
polished like bone, bleached and bare,
hanging like open mouths on the wall,
holding nothing, reflecting everything.
and somehow, here i am inside,
caught in the glass, nowhere to hide.
my face split and stretched across them all,
like a dodgy sticker peeling at the sides.
a trick of light, a trick of fate
am i the buyer or the bait?