The people in my world are all for free speech
so long as it’s not mine.
Stemmed from a mind of national concern,
it hardly counts as an emergency
when I try to dig my nails into the glass
separating me from the world
and tear them apart.
Waiting for pity or strength to release me
so long as no one knows.
Even you wait for my unmoving enemy
to leave me motionless on the cement floor.
Before, you’ve tried to comfort me.
“If it makes you feel any better,”
you say with a violent smile.
“I baked you a lie.”
 Heated to perfection in an easy-bake oven.
 I stare through the scratches on my wall,
“Thanks, I guess,” I whisper.
It’s been so long since I’ve heard my voice.
It almost shocks me.
I need you to come in after me.
I can barely move,
much less stand,
or break the glass.
Trapped on the wrong side of guilt,
I hardly care what kind of lie you baked me.
You say it’s cherry, and it suits me so well.
You thought of me, as you made it
and you just had to come by
and give it to me.
You can tell I’m dying in exile,
but ask me to hold that thought for now.
You have to leave.
It just wouldn’t seem right
that you bake cherry lies for girls trapped in glass.
I ask, before you leave,
“Next time you stop to stare at me,
bring something other than a lie crust
ornamented with anything that suits your thoughts,
and break this glass for good
even if I have to eat your lies
and trust your contents
farther than I trust in anything, anymore.”

Instead you laugh internally,
Knowing that even you seem perfect
when I’m in here.