The Guest Room Symphony

I was never afraid to Tell the story of the panic doors. It once began while I shimmied my Way up a lattice and Into the guest room. I felt like a child on the Verge of an egocentric breakdown. Full to the brim with euphoria. Vibrant and agile and overwhelmed. I could hear her shifting pots on the Burners down stairs. I could hear him breathing fast. I swear to this day I could hear His heart beat from that windowsill. When I slid my way under the glass It caught my skin and tore the flesh. I didn't feel it until he forced his thumb Through the rupture in the scarlet abrasion. I watched as a plum colored stream slid Down the underpass of My hips and his fingertips. A plum colored stream In sexed up heat With the breaks of The dishwasher latch clicking. A green light at the docks end Showed worries puddled up And wetting an open wound. I felt as eager as a child, Snipping the ends of dusky hair At midnight as My mother wondered beneath her sheets. I let a few sighs and groans Seep though the guest room And down the stairway Where an indebted woman Tiptoed, curiously. Then the creak of the panic doors.