Little bird



ABCs of Hiding

After the storm of words I lie
beneath the ceiling lights, fan blades spinning like
cut glass in a downward spiral of
dry air--my eyes close slowly.
Echoes fill my mind as though I am being
flooded by your words and I just want you to
get out of my brain because
here is not right, not the place.
I bury myself in swathes of fabric,
just to forget you but everything I
know is associated with the stream of
loud, long, lasting words you spat.
More unsafe than unafraid, I had
nowhere to turn but away.
Over the course of hours, I became less
pliable, hardening into something
quiet beneath the lights that now shine on my flesh,
reinforcing the paleness of my
skin hiding beneath exposure
that promises escape.
Understand that you are not
very important in the end.
When I open my eyes again I see little
X’s over your face, each saying my name,
yelling at me through space, until I count to
zero, having found refuge beneath the ceiling lights.



Hush your mouth.