Tamper-proof

My floor is medi­cinal. My car­pet is chem­ical. My ceil­ing is poison. My win­dows myopic.

And my walls, my walls are a punc­tured, pock­marked epi­dermis, stretched tight over the crooked frame beneath. Tonight, I pierce them with a screw­driver and watch them bleed down to their skirts; tomor­row, I will mois­tur­ise them until they smooth away into nothing.

My door is shut firm, numbered anonym­ous, lined up as just another one amongst many. Without an iden­tity. Without com­ment. Do not draw undue atten­tion to your­self. The way I like it. I am not at home to hawkers, to hikers or to campers. I am out to lunch for the fore­see­able future. I should be locked up, but I am merely locked in.

I have dropped every size and shape of key. Thrown the jangling bunch out to sea some­where, cast­ing off the chains to a fit­ting hid­ing place. Splashed over the side. Don’t reach your hand under the boards and the waves to retrieve them. Best left to a watery grave, or as so many metal­lic bones to claw and chake at the throats of raven­ous sharks.

Up above, I am scratch­ing my tell­tale marks in the table, and carving my mys­tical runes in the tab­lets. Taken twice daily, at dawn and dusk; gulped down with luke­warm water, a held breath, and an impa­tient voice which asks whether I’m bet­ter yet. Are you bet­ter? Are you cured? Have you been tak­ing your medicine?

I keep these paink­illers out of harm’s way, secured by a child-proof lid and an adult-proof heart.