I feel myself becoming
unhinged
the seams tearing
one by one,
breaking.
Submerged, perhaps,
but more than that
sequestered
inside the four walls
that bleed yellow into
a flowered wallpaper
like my father had in my Barbie house,
long ago, before he became unhinged.
The voices don’t speak,
I hear silence except for the
pat-pat-pat of my heart,
the tempo rising so I cover my ears
but I still hear it.
Loud.
Strong.
My hands shake, my chest caves in.
I can’t breathe.
Unhinged
Alexandra Alessandri 