His Room

I met him in the Spring—by accident.
He was sweaty that first day, like he
hadn’t showered in weeks, though the real culprit
was the scorching heat of the sun that seemed to have no end.
Our friendship grew into a tangled web of danger,
and trying to navigate his room was harder than
a ballerina tip-toeing on a tightrope.
I felt safe with him, holding onto a false sense of security
like a land mine waiting for the smallest trigger to make it explode.
He pinned me down, beneath the scent of failed promises
and overt power. Escape was impossible as I saw the sun,
in all its glory, descend into darkness through his bedroom window.

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