Solitary Safety

I sit in the cold, gray prison cell,
Each bare brick stark and unrelenting
In its impenetrable gloom.
A worn, decaying door,
Cracked and creviced,
Silently stands guard.

Passers-by peek in, craning
To see through the thin bars
To gawk at Inmate Me.
Some stay and chat, others linger
Or even come again for the sake
Of the poor, confined soul.

But none ever come in.

Try as they might,
Even the warmest-hearted
Never do enter to touch
Or come near to me.
Though others eschew it,
That is how I spend my days.

They wonder how the door remains bolted,
So firmly and finally, unmoving,
When they cannot find a lock, a bolt,
Or any device to make the door sure,
They wonder, ponder, fruitless,
But they never ask why.

I don’t wonder.

The bolt is before me,
Sprinkled red with rust from disuse.
The key lies untouched on a cracked stone,
In reach of the door, no more waiting to be used.
I know it’s there, how to use it, what it’s for,
But I don’t.

I stay where I am.

Here, I cannot be hurt.
I don’t mind occasional guests.
Many are warm and kind.
I look forward to some visits,
Though I can’t fathom what they come to see.
I’ve seen enough of my own self.
I doubt that I'm anything
To be proud to share with others.
My room has no mirror.
Why would I ever want to see more of me?
Why would others want to take me in?

So here I remain.
Alone.
Untouched.
Safe.


But alone.