Claustrophobia

These lies and half truths

build a wall more concrete

than breezeblocks,

redder than Accrington brick.

If I were to pound them with my futile fists

I’d bleed sooner.

So I don’t

but half asleep

watch them build

brick on brick,

lie on lie,

till I can’t breathe.

Will Ivy ever grow between the cracks

(smaller than the space between us used to be?)

Or will I run full pelt

and shoulder it flat,

then nurse the dislocation and the graze?

Or else, stand by

and listen

till my stifled heartbeat stops.