What Are You Running From?
Shattered glass rests on wooden floorboards
as careful footsteps tiptoe around.
The thick walls of mortar and cracked bricks
a shield against the nighttime stars.
The graffiti, a comfort in a chamber of solitude.
This is your fortress, hidden from the word.
Rot, rust, and mold enter your lungs,
exhaled by a foggy breath.
The cotton from a torn couch shifts
as you crouch behind it, awaiting
sirens searching for a trespasser.
You cling to yourself, nails digging into your scarred arms.
The first step inside was a mistake, but
if you leave, you will be caught, captured, chastised.
The longer you linger, the worse it will be.
A warm tear falls down your cheek as sirens blare in the distance.