as soon as i turn onto the street,
my pulse picks up pace to make up
for the slack on the gas pedal
as my foot sides with a little part of my heart
in the war between it and my brain
and the part of me arming myself
with a litany of you are untouchable nows.

the house on the corner sits there
as it always has, square and solid and red -
red as southern dirt coating holy little arms and legs,
red as skinned knees and scraped palms,
red as the pickup truck outside,
red as a hunted girl in the woods, red as -

the other house is off-white.
it’s long and flat and once upon a time
a boy kissed me right there in the front yard
on my seven-year-old strawberry cheek.
the boy moved out and took even the cabinet doors
and soon after the nightmare moved in.
i always steal a glance in case it’s outside.
today it is, casually sunning itself on the porch.
i feel its eyes on me as i pull in across the road.

the little drummer boy housed in my chest is going to war.
i never know if we win.
i fumble with the keys, torn between hurryuphurryupit’sthereit’sthere -
and i know, i know. it can smell fear.
i let the car door hang open before i’m ready to get out.
i’m open, it silently challenges. come and get me if you dare.
i check the mirror to make sure it doesn’t.

i slide out, fight the urge to pull myself in and instead grow larger.
i do not look over again.
every step to the red door i take thuds in my ears,
my own war drums. this fight i will win. i do not look behind me.
i knock on the door. i go in, feeling eyes burning me.
i’ve won.

until i walk back out -
then i do it all again.