The door is made of glass.
Outside is a killer
a statue/ a man
with a woman’s wings.
Fear is knocking me down
And reminding me
about me/ about life
about breathing in.
The thought that glass
is so fragile is a
clenched hand/ a bird
a crawling spider on my neck.
I see him eyeing the smooth
glass, grinding his teeth,
his hand stroking/ bursting through
placed gently, palm out on the door.
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