You were the elephant in the room apparently.

The black seething mass of storm clouds

clustered over this house

keeping daylight out and darkness in.

 

Each room creaking under the pressure

of keeping you contained

when every corner was filled to bursting

and the foundations heaved

and the windows splintered

and even the roof tiles popped free

one by one

in the hopes you could be bled away.

 

You covered everything past, present,

future.

Who could have blamed me

for those days I molded the mattress

to the shape of a collapsing spine,

when it was your weight

cursing every vertabrea,

turning my duvet to lead.

 

Your collapse was so much slower,

a reluctance I’d failed to show

when my strength shed like snake skin

and you took it for your own,

as a reminder

that you couldn’t be vanquished,

only temporarily tamed.

 

Recently, you fit inside a matchbox.

The size of an ant,

I carry you from place to place

in pocket or purse,

near enough to feel you scurrie

across my skin

when the sun skims behind the clouds

and shadows reign.

 

I know you are searching

for the gaps in my seams,

the frayed edges that will let you in

where you can grown again,

back to the size you were

when I was the insect

wedged beneath your boot.

 

It’s very possible you will.

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