Containment

The mail is a stack of heavy, white debt

pressing against my chest.

A man in a clean coat held the door

and I hated him for being polite.

The bridge of my nose is a fault line.

There’s a wire tightening behind my eyes,

a hot, dry itch that wants to break

but the hinge is rusted shut.

I keep my chin level and walk to the car.

If I blink, the whole structure goes,

so I stare at the gravel

until the world turns into a blur of grey.