by Kerry Thomas

See that space there in my hand.

And that space there on the floor.

That space, just like the space,

Exploding from my eyes.

Space here is abundant,

Space for me to hide,

There is always space.

To much space.

So me, they’ll never find.

And yet with this much space,
There seems so little room,
Doors are closed and locks in place,
And I am swamped with gloom.
For fleeing from my town,
The trees, the leaves, the damned,
Is easier than fleeing from,
The guns. Those awful sounds.

Those hideous sharp figures, that smash into you chest, and invade every corner. And brake. And infest. Your womb a pearly harbour, storing up their crime. A beating is the punishment for stepping out of line. A thousand rotten images, bombarding in your head; the faces, the hands, the knives, the pain. The tears the blood and lives lost in vein. The broken, the weak, the tortured and maimed, A million haunting memories of events so inhumane.

This space here in this room,

Still space enough for me,

For my vacant flesh to hide,

As forget what I can see.