Another year has passed me by
nothing has changed,
Living everyday
Trapped in this frame.
What word is left that hasn’t already dissolved?
My words fall soft, like they were never thrown.
I stand in rooms already dimmed.
Living with strangers,
Murmurs drift passed my frame,
Eyes that meet, then move away,
like I’ve interrupted something sacred.
My past pinned to the wall,
a moment they refuse to take down.
Under the warm spotlight
my varnish starts to soften,
colours bleeding through the cracks.
Voices circle the frame,
interpreting me out loud.
I thought I was light and open,
colours meant to breathe.
They retitle the frame
selfish, dull, grotesque.
Hands point from different angles,
each claiming the truest view.
I am more than the frame you chose.
By Callum Ashworth
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