Away from prying eyes.
Away from the black goo
that oozes out of every crevice.
I saw it leap across a building
just to catch a floating dandelion,
pulling it down with its weight,
down to the ground, to reality.
Reality is the cold, cement pavement
that grips my bare feet when I try to
run to the field of flowers you’re in.
It is the strip of leather that bites my skin
and covers me in jagged red lines
each time that field crosses my mind,
Like a predator marking its territory.
The black goo is what steadies my heart,
it coats it entirely and then hardens
like polymer. I clench my fist every time
to distract my brain from the pain,
from the pretty flowers you’re lying in,
Almost as if I were crushing a dandelion.
All as I sit here in this room, gazing
out the open window. The door is shut,
the door is locked. The door, closed.