Seems I've fallen in again
deep into my own mind
into the vault in the very center
with meter-thick walls
of steel and concrete
and the heavy door creaks shut,
slamming into place.

That's checkmate.
There's no way in or out.
I can't be reached.
I sit on the floor,
put my back against the wall,
knees bent, supporting my elbows.
The air sirens wail
and I wait for the bomb to drop,
knowing I'll survive it
and the fallout
without being phased.
I'm so comfortable
that I begin to fall asleep.

The perimeter's full of landmines
and there's no map through them.
I know where they're all placed
and I've never told a soul.

My mind is a labyrinth
nobody can conquer.
It is my home.
Solicitors get shot off the front porch
by an automated system.

Rooms upon rooms are filled with junk
and assorted nonsense.
Helpful hints under the floorboards.
Pages of lies posted inside the drywall
for extra insulation.

Doors upon doors that slam shut
when the wrong sequence
of words is uttered.
They can't be pried back open again
or broken down.
In effect, this seals the victim
into their own compartment,
their new apartment in my mind.
I'll let them out
whenever I feel like
and sometimes I never do.

It becomes more like solitary confinement then.
They're in their place,
right where they belong.
I don't trust them enough
to open the door again.
Sometimes they run out of oxygen
and die in my mind
but I always make sure to give them
enough rope to hang themselves.



© Little Devil