the closet light is ominous.
it signifies my twelve year habit.
i've been a crumpled mess,
afraid of the dark, and burningburning.

in my sleep i talk like the possessed.
in the morning, you will tell me that i
held my hands over my head like a prisoner.
i am, in many ways:
bound to shards and glass and paintings
that i bought last year and never hung.

i hear you in my dreams,
hear you say that the omens
are like women who
hold their legs above their heads and scream
holymotherofgodhavemercy.

i couldn't taste you then,
nor now, only the acidic backwash
of having to wake up.
emerging, my eyes
scan the shadows and
arrive at the closet, my captor

sweaty palms
deftly clutching that child
who is still waiting
for the monsters
to come crawling
out of doors and flesh.

10/24/2006

Author's Note: my first poem for my poetry class.

Posted on 10/24/2006
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe