as soon as i turn onto the street,

my pulse picks up pace to make up

for the slack on the gas pedal

as my foot sides with a little part of my heart

in the war between it and my brain

and the part of me arming myself

with a litany of you are untouchable nows.

the house on the corner sits there

as it always has, square and solid and red -

red as southern dirt coating holy little arms and legs,

red as skinned knees and scraped palms,

red as the pickup truck outside,

red as a hunted girl in the woods, red as -

the other house is off-white.

it’s long and flat and once upon a time

a boy kissed me right there in the front yard

on my seven-year-old strawberry cheek.

the boy moved out and took even the cabinet doors

and soon after the nightmare moved in.

i always steal a glance in case it’s outside.

today it is, casually sunning itself on the porch.

i feel its eyes on me as i pull in across the road.

the little drummer boy housed in my chest is going to war.

i never know if we win.

i fumble with the keys, torn between hurryuphurryupit’sthereit’sthere -

and i know, i know. it can smell fear.

i let the car door hang open before i’m ready to get out.

i’m open, it silently challenges. come and get me if you dare.

i check the mirror to make sure it doesn’t.

i slide out, fight the urge to pull myself in and instead grow larger.

i do not look over again.

every step to the red door i take thuds in my ears,

my own war drums. this fight i will win. i do not look behind me.

i knock on the door. i go in, feeling eyes burning me.

i’ve won.

until i walk back out -

then i do it all again.