Metus

There are colder places than this, I think

I have known them in past lives, in pieces of memories almost

forgotten save for the postcards taped behind the bedroom door.

I put things in boxes and fold things into drawers and 

tuck my failures behind my throw pillow, 

no one ever looks there. 

I hide old love letters in my collection of encyclopedias,

between the editions of BS and BV… there aren’t that many entries in BS

but it’s an old set. 

I vacuum every trace of dust and open every window to the morning light

but the air still feels musty and heavy with the weight 

of my terror. 

I paint my face and pack my bag,

My watch ticks and the four white walls grow bright and close,

I contemplate the doorframe and breathe only with difficulty 

I push and I shove but my feet disobey,

choosing prison,

people are monsters in the morning.