Keeping One Eye Open

I hate that being cornered made me feel small for that awful second before fear sharpened into something useful. I hate even more that fear woke me up completely. Calm is not peace. Sometimes it is only whatever I am too busy to question.

The evidence under my pillow may be ridiculous. It is probably useless there. Still, I like knowing that one clean fact is touching me while I sleep. As if the paperwork can stand guard better than I can.

My ribs ache whenever I breathe too deeply. I keep noticing the exact place, then getting irritated with myself for noticing. Pain should mean I survived. Instead, it gives me a fresh excuse to review what almost happened, which is exactly how I turn caution into another way of refusing to move forward.

I am lying in my mother’s spare room with the rain making everything sound temporary. The family home is close enough that I can pretend I came here only because of the work. That would be easier if I did not know how badly I want somewhere familiar to remain mine.

Tomorrow I will be angry again. Anger is clean; it tells me where to look. The uglier thing is that I am afraid of becoming accustomed to being frightened. Then I might have to admit this life is not freedom. It is one hard exit after another, with bruised ribs as proof I am still running.