dungeon

Something about the corner calls to
me, beckoning with its firm angle, its
innate security, I think.
I am a restless child, a cat, who hides
away secret fears and gives way to the
walls and enjoys the proximity of
their own flesh.

The mess I've created slips and sloshes, powerful
despite my desperate grasp, but
the corner can contain it.
Here I curl and become the world,
a spinning universe gently guided.

He knows I am gone.
He knows the corner is my escape, my space
to flee to, a sturdy hold when
human embrace
is far too much to bear.
A cold, hard punishment; a soft, warm relief.
And I know, I know the corner cradles,
the corner confines, the corner
can do no wrong.
Which is a comfort when I have.