Latchbolt

Latch Bolt

I’ve never been able,
try as I might,
to give myself completely
to anything
or anyone.
As though I was not all there
to give.
Perhaps I have left part of myself behind
in a box on a shelf
or by the side of a road
or locked in a small room
somewhere
with the latch bolt
on the other side of the door,
too high for me to reach,
even if I
was on the other side.
Too.

I just turned seven and
I’m really scared.
He strode in smiling,
his head jutting forward
and his hand on his belt.
I hear the latch bolt.
I cry before he touches me
and I run.
He’s behind me and I’m really scared.
I can go nowhere
but under the bed.
He drags me out and no one hears me.
I cry.
Hands on the bed.
Is what I’m feeling really real?
Am I just pretending to be so scared?
Does it really hurt so much
or am I just bein’ a wimp?
Why am I praying to die?
Is it really that bad?
This hasn’t happened before, has it?
Am I even still here?
What’s happening down there?
I not still crying, am I?
I’m not alone, there’s somebody here
with me.
Somebody I like.
Somebody wonderful
and familiar.
We look down on me and cry a little
then we float out into the evening sky.
I wake up in a different room.
Someone’s shaking me.
I’m clean, and sore
and I walk home