Hiding Place

in #poetry6 years ago

I think it goes like this:
There was a girl and a closet and a floor
the closet had sliding doors
the girl had sliding tears and,
the way I remember, she was me
folded in the dark among laundry
and books she had brought along
because books are friends
but books are also weapons
when the demons come raging
the doors off their hinges
to swing the girl wildly above the floor
whole
house
shaking
if a girl is a house, and she is
more than she is the names she is called
including slut
and whore
and witch.

If I remember correctly, the girl,
who was me, was no evil child,
cast no spells over men or devils
but they came for her anyway
and told her she would remember
it wrong. Not to trust
anyone,
especially
herself.
So I cannot be certain it happened at all,
that I was hunted or that she was me,
or of the closet,
the floor,
the doors.

What I am sure of
is how each point of contact still hurts
when I wake from dreams searching
for water to quench
the fire of hands
where they landed.

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Very good poetry girl, I'll be happy to follow you.

You should follow me and help this little fish

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