The girl at the checkout counter
gives me a
side-long look.
She seems bemused
by my words.
Did I say too much
or too little?
How much is ever enough?

I always liked solitude,
it’s as vital to me as food.
But five days alone is my limit,
more is too heavy a weight.
One more ounce, and I’m crushed.

I speak out loud to the mirror,
checking I still have a voice.
Sometimes I answer myself.
I sound like a rusty old clock.
I seem to be losing my tick.

I brace myself for the day
I strap on a shell,
a brave carapace,
to keep the dark moments at bay.
I’m an expert at living this way.

But when friends come to stay
and then go away
I feel that my heart
has been opened and filled
and then,
quietly,
clinically,
stripped.