Checking, checking, and I can’t seem to stop.
How many more times before I know that it’s locked?
Maybe one, maybe two, maybe three tops,
But this power inside me refuses to rot.
Again, I must try and break through this block
of wood to see if anyone else could – they could not.
And yet I can’t walk away, I’m fixed to my spot,
my hand stuck on the handle like some fleshy clot.
He’s making it worse, so carefully he plots
my very clear demise. I look at the clock.
Time is passing too fast, I just want to chop
off my hand, or at the very least to the floor drop
and crawl away, away, away into my cot.
I want my safety. I want my bed.
So, I break free from the door.
For a minute.
I’ve won the battle, come out on top.
But then the heights of my heroism start to drop.
The door is not yet out of earshot.
And out the corner of my eye, it shot
Me with a glance so full of gleam, like a snob
towering high above me. I feel robbed
of my pride and my dignity and my power. I sob.
I cry for everything sacrificed and lost.
At what point did this line get so far crossed?
I walk towards the door, its white paint like frost.
Checking, checking, but at what cost?
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