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no one should ever have to see the underside of a tree.

[small island]

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sometimes the gators just get too close. there will be a week, or a month, when the water has risen up to all my doors, when they seem to be under everything i move.

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when i was younger and made for an easier target, i tried avoiding them. you know, jumping from the bed, to the dresser, then into the hall and to safety. or i would pretend they weren't there, hoping they would succumb to the indignity of nonexistence. i tried to get other people to fight them off for me, but i wasn't really sure how to state my case, and anyway, they moved too fast. i have only ever found one thing that works.

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when i could see the whites of their eyes, i would close mine. dark for a moment, but then a silent room, a scuffed wooden floor, white curtains moving in the air. it always smells like morning there. behind my eyelids i would lift my arms, and then all of a sudden they weren't empty.

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i would dance around that chill, empty ballroom, flying, surrounded, safe. my heart should have stopped cold with dread, but it didn't. it never does. He is just a man, here. i don't have to say anything. the warrior robed in white and the woman in labor, the eagle, the rock, the tree on fire, but ultimately the only person who knows me. with all the world shut out i can feel His arms around me, my hand closed in his, my eyes shut tight against his chest. it's frightening to write. it's still too awful, too thrilling to admit to.

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but i can't help it. i can't forget. it's the secret rooms that get inside your head.