My mum tells me to be careful as I close the front door Every footstep the tick of a bomb about to go off And I know that she will worry until she hears me return That maybe this time I wasn’t careful enough But I know Careful Careful is a woman who walks in our skin when the door shuts behind us Faceless and watchful With keys jammed between each finger And her honey voice is flowing through a perpetual conversation with the home screen of her phone Her gait wide and her hood up, hair down but tucked away She never looks up only shifts her eyes from left to right on a pendulum trajectory determined to read the cadence of the shadows Like they are palms or tea leaves or a CCTV in operation sign on the front of a shop window On the walk home She is always moving A waterfall rushing down the steepest drop to get back home with all her foundations in tact Careful is always waiting for the other shoe to fall She is texting texting texting details of her plans Where she has been where she is going what is the license of the taxi she is in Are the doors locked as soon as she shuts them? How salty is too salty for a margarita or a tequila or a glass of water Can anyone vouch for the milliseconds that her drink was out of her sight? She has a pair of earphones attached to nothing jutting from her ears and her key clawed hands wrapped tightly around a can of pepper spray And her car is parked right outside the building Careful is always a woman living in a war zone where the enemies can be the ones that she has trusted most Or strangers that cast long shadows She is a landmine that is always in danger of being stepped on She is made into a three star salad that the jury reject because she was underdressed Overexposed like the photos that Careful should never have sent Because even she knows that she cannot exist A woman is always careful But never careful enough.