Prisons

Perhaps 
Womanhood, for me, 
Is to be in a constant state of violation. 
Of body, 
Of mind, 
Of spirit. 
Perhaps 
This isolation is a form of protection. 
Perhaps 
This medusian stare is a blessing. 
Perhaps 
I was always meant
To be surrounded by stone. 
For, lately, 
Talking myself down 
Has felt like talking to a brick wall. 
I’ve built myself a fortress of fear, 
and I can’t find the exit. 
Now, more than ever, 
I am afraid of being a burden. 
So, I’ve locked you out 
Of my tower of terror. 
For, now, 
I know what horrors man is capable of. 
And I’ve been sentenced to a life
Without security,
Without peace,
Without rest.
But in this solitude,
I’ve learned to be my own savior of sorts.
Shut every window.
Lock every door.
What saving will I need
In this prison
Of my own creation?