I am nothing but,
blue panes of glass dangling,
in mid-air,
and I am transparent,
made of my own words,
that turned to sand,

and then to glass under the pressure,
under the unknowing scrutiny,
of all I failed to be for you.

and the movement of,
this glass pane girl,
is jolted, and jerky,
and frozen,

so I sit,
composed of my words,
and under scrutiny,
to see how invisible my flaws are,
and they've set these standards,
that I'll never live up to,