A Cage, Not a Home

My boyfriend's apartment isn't a home. It's a cage, a pressure cooker with the heat turned

all the way up. He's there, my boyfriend, his love twisted into something sharp

and controlling. His paranoia fills the small space, leaving no room for air,

no room for me. The arguments are explosive, echoing through the thin walls for

the whole building to hear. They hate us for the many packages that have gone missing.

The sound of shattering glass has become the soundtrack to my life. I don't bother getting

undressed most nights. I sleep in my clothes, ready to run. I know that he won't let me leave with

any bags of clothes, and sometimes I do run. I run to temporary escapes,