I could feel myself slipping.   A white picket fence, fenced around my moat, fenced around my wall.   I thought I was safe, I thought I was secure.  Each room, each compartment, defined – specific.

Here in this room is my sanity.

Here is in this room is my logic.

Here in this room is my fear.

Here in this room is my desire.

I keep them separate like the nuns kept the boys and girls apart.  It’s black and white, white and black.  I must not introduce gray.

I wish I could photograph with my eyes so you can see what I see, feel what I feel.  My arm is outstretched, its sinews and bones, its skin and bleu, blue, bleu bleeding veins.

My white picket house, in the eye of the storm.  It’s seemingly silent, seemingly calm.  The storm is circling, the floods are coming.  My moat may not be deep enough for what’s to come.  My wall not high enough to withstand this wind.

You’re a storm, you’re a force and I’m not sure I’ll still be standing when you blow on past.

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