It kept building, in the way all things do
Like a rising crescendo.
It took one and half years to break me:
The distance, the disease,
The divorce
The accumulation of pennies in my jar,
One for each heartbreak
I am become afraid of my own kitchen,
Of too many noises
Of trusting things I thought were mine,
My stability crumbles on sandy foundations
The tighter I hold, the greater the cold.
Its not within me yet,
but the many lashed open wounds
Might yet grant entry
To fill the warm spaces that were emptied
A bloodless, blood loss eviction
I write this to stand guard
Against new tennants

And I am afraid
They may have already arrived
Or perhaps
They never left