Remembering the Pattern

...Lock every door.

The thought borrows into

my mind llike a parasite.

Lock every door and pick out a knife.

It's the same futile home-defense tricks

I foolishly buy into my first night at the house.

Each and every time.

A large house in the middle of the woods,

what's a girl to do?

Keep a knife by the bed,

check every room,

turn off the lights at night

so no one can see inside.

They are thoughts I never have

anywhere else.

By day, it's a paradise.

Rows of vegetable and herb gardens,

hiking trails in the woods,

comfy couches and throw blankets,

and cats to keep me company.

But by dusk,

I dread the solitude,

everything about the house

a reminder of the isolation.

The groaning as the house settles,

the stillness of the yard,

the quiet of the basement,

even the reflections in the windows as I walk by,

is there someone out there watching?

I've scared myself before,

more than once.

I've watched over this house

countless times,

and still my paranoia creeps in.

It's funny how at peace I feel in the woods

till I'm surrounded by man-made walls

and too many entrances to monitor.

Too many ways inside.

The fear of prying eyes

in the dark.

My imagination

betrays me.