It is inside a cage,
the shelter from all that noise,
from surprises and attention,
that I want to go
Initially.
Suffering seeps past stainless steel.
The structure in which I hide
or regroup,
where I feel like I can catch my breath;
it feels like safety within it’s shape.
It holds me.
I feel the protection of it
solid and unyielding,
against my limbs and lungs
keeping me.
It occurs to me,
noise and attention,
surprises,
transcend.
This will to stay within
is really living without.
Once I was shoved.
Packed in and
backed in
to a corner
where my worst fears lie.
Room 101 and WWII–
put that on my bio.
The crate where I have stored my safety
has kept me from feeling safe.
Circumstances built it, and I,
I have managed the upkeep.
Tirelessly maintaining and refurbishing
the corner I was backed into;
perhaps it won’t be so claustrophobic
or my worst nightmare,
if I fix up the place.
No amount of renovation
can turn a cage into a home.
I have to move out of this residence
before it crushes me
I feel the pain of confinement
and the sun blinding me
It is good.
It is a great thing to know I am caged.
Now I know I can get out.
It is a cage.
It is not a home, or a shelter,
or a safe haven.
I don’t want to be in it
and I am glad.
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