Glass Bottles

 Glass prisons, bottles drained dry,
shooting the bullets, a mile into the glass.
A body is a funny kind of object that can be suspended directly under a set of staring eyes
like a magnifying glass. A body can turn and resist. A body is a glass bottle. A slender neck that can be grasped like a rope; a full and sloshing body. Please you, please. A glass bottle spins and
it sings out its little furies like a wind chime.
Bottles on country album covers. Young
wine-girls sprawled over duvets. Lithe,
crystal boys. Lavender bruises over
saturated skin. Milk-white eyes
over glass glow. What's in a
glance? A remark, reeling
and salivating. To erase
a person in all senses.
Your own glass body
is fragile, delicate,
shatterable, and
detestably
alluring.

I can't objectify you in a stanza, but I sure can try.

“An empty green bottle, sticky inside, lies naked in a bare grass field strewn over with dawn light
where those boys fled

out of sight from the deep dizzy night.”

I am a young Scottish writer from Glasgow, studying English at St Andrews. I have been published by Echo Lit Mag, Alzheimer's UK, GBV Activism Zine, Rotary UK and several independent student magazines. I write mostly poetry and fiction.