Boasting Boxes

Her eyes on the stairwell. As it rumbled down into the earth. Below where she'd always lived. Torn stockings. Cheating up cold legs. For places unseen. Her fingers on the rail. Like a snake. Slithering through tall stalks of when. Ready to poison if.

She didn't wake him up. In the bleak of the afterward. A contingency. His moist penis. Reinforces the walls inside her. No windows. No doors. Neither entry nor exit. For poorly drawn cunts. And the dried up markers that made them.

His fading breath. Thick pillows under her head. Peddling pliant nightmares through the dents in her forehead. I always wake up just before they drive the first nail. I always wake up with the pillows on the floor. And a monster under the bed.

I go to the cellar. Because down makes sense. But they're not there. I go to the attic. Because up is a curious logic. I wish to comprehend.

No windows. No doors. No entry nor exit. Only through the small holes in this heavy skin.