Six feet apart, feet wide apart
relentlessly checking the doorways.
I wished I was six feet under,
wished some seismic sea wave would arrive
and pull me asunder.
I locked myself in the third-floor bathroom
because I didn't want to wander the halls.
There are people stuck in these walls
and I hear them, I hear them, I hear them
       I hear them when I walk alone
  and they're all screaming
         for me to leave this place.
There are people stuck in my head
and I keep them there until I'm ready
to think about them,
       ready to write them down.
This is a warning.
    Do you see the red flashing lights?
      Are you looking at the black and gold stripes?
I was warned in a different way
and now I'm warning you not to stay
    here.
Some people are so naturally ordinary,
and others don't quite fit in place.
Parts of them do not align, so to speak,
They are never looking directly into your eyes
and you only smile a half-smile,
                       because you feel bad,
                          but not that bad.
Why are you still here?
Don't you have somewhere to be?
It's not worth it to meet
  just to see me curl myself in a ball again,
    make a home for myself inside my head
   putting up a picket fence there
          so the dogs don't come for me.
I admit that it's a juvenile fear.
But I promised myself I'd run away
when my fingernails started to rattle,
and I've kept my word.