Safehouse

By Caitlin Munn

My house sits high on a hill,

Moated by the heads of American beauty roses- 

Thorning all trespassers and trip-wiring tricksters.

Except for today, except for you.

A faceless salesman. 

My room is comprised of a singular chair.

Soft plush cushion and engraved wooden legs.

Comfortably confined to this seat I realise that I cannot remember

When I last stood up.

It’s like living in a snow globe of acid rain

Where day by day, I lick my wounds with a tongue that is rough and

sterile.

The only light comes from my television set- 

Playing reruns of heartbreak;

holding on too tight.

I take twenty-three deep breaths and

Blow.

I had forgotten, today is my birthday.

You stand still in my doorway 

awaiting an invitation I have forgotten how to give.

But you are holding a tape I haven’t seen before

And I want something new.

I let you gently ease it into the battered player

and allow you to sit by me., on the floor for now.

You press play

and I let you loosely put your hand in mine.

I ask you how long it will last and you tell me

this one has a different ending- 

now that I’ve let you move closer, your features are clear to me.

You smile at me, squeeze my hand tight

And for once.

I feel safe.