The Third Person | Bonnie Pignatiello Leer You stand there talking at me Looking at your hands You're inferior Like second-hand furniture Like cast off hand me downs Like bitter coffee And it must be my fault. Your life has holes Is incomplete Like a half-painted wall Like a garden destroyed With a neighbor's shovel Like a picture sitting on the floor Instead of hanging on the wall. And I must somehow be the cause. Your words beat at me Razors from your mouth I'm lost I'm alone And think about floating In silent winds.