by Vicky Ward
This is the place that the giant red shell soldiers with a thousand legs, faces inspirations for the greatest horrors, come to hide.
This is the hole too deep.
This is the noise so loud that your ears bleed from the inescapable incessant intrusion, the people who drone and burn, the crowded shoe box bars, 90 decibels of toxin or above.
This is the wood too eager to burn.
This is the quiet that swallows whole, more space swimming around than you can tread, more mental sewage than itâ€™s possible to make.
This is the fence too low to stop.
This is the place you never knew you were headed, until one day you woke up.
This is the one way door already swung shut.