Cellophane

Enveloped in cellophane,
My breath fogs the plastic
But never reaches you.
You watch me through it,
See the shape of me,
But never the person inside.

Your fingers press,
Searching for warmth,
For something real to hold,
But the surface is smooth,
Too perfect, too untouchable.
You trace my outline,
Call me light, call me essential,
But never ask what is beneath.

I scream, but the sound drowns
Before it touches your ears.
You hear something,
But not the words I tear from my throat.
You see my lips move,
But not the ache that spills between them.

I claw, I burn, I break,
But you only notice the glimmer,
The way light slides over the cuts.
You never run your fingers through my dust,
Never stop to see what’s left of me.

If I shattered,
Splintered at your feet,
You would watch the way I caught the light
And never once wonder
How much it hurt to break.