I lie in bed, under cover,
fear rising up through the pores of my skin;
it leaks from my hair.

My door is locked; there are no monsters under my bed.
The only demons here live inside my head,
in muscle, bone, cell memory.

Tall and impenetrable is the brick wall that locks me out, that locks me in.
Sarcasm drips from the corner of my mouth, first laughing, then crying,
my face stuck in a perpetual open mouthed gape of surrendered indecision.

Anger trickles through my toes, almost imperceptible,
a shallow breath slowly exhaled, a child hiding in the dark.

The cool porcelain of disavowed feeling snakes between my fingers,
settles in my palm.

Who protects me from my own rage?

Nowhere left to hide,
smashing dishes under cover.