Thick Skin

[Keith]

2nd Edit(justcloudy)

I lost every key,
even the ones I threaded
on boot lace round my neck,
I hid them at the backs of drawers,
blue-tacked under table tops
but you still took them.

I mind myself in unlocked rooms,
respectful of what I was,
sipping at the waterhole,
holding host with all that sat,
drinks would go flat and I would burn
plastic in the ash trays
of furtive conversation.

Your words now fall ferrous,
on childlike courage,
fillings controlled by a magnet show
that hides the true possessor.
All I have is a matching pole,
tip painted red, ready to repel.

I hear you at the door,
your entrance snaps my mood
takes the blossom too soon,
damages nerves and I'm impugned
once more.

You take away and I subtract
then watch ten years before I act,
set deep inside your cold rebuff.
This armchair armadillo,
has had enough.


1st Edit
I lost every key,
even the ones I threaded
on boot lace round my neck,
you snapped them like pearls.
I hid them at the backs of draws,
blue tacked under table tops
but you still found them.

I mind myself in unlocked rooms,
respectful of what I was,
balletic Hippo at the waterhole,
rising like a returning salmon.
Drinks would go flat and I would burn
plastic in the ash trays
of engrossed conversation.

Your words still fall ferrous,
too much rust eats me away.
All I need is the oil can,
painted red, held by cobwebs,
locked inside my old shed,
a few drops left,
with spider guards, in case of theft.

I hear you at the door,
the sudden gust
takes the blossom too soon,
a spear that’s thrown across the room
damages nerves and I'm impugned
once more.

You take away and I subtract
then watch ten years before I act,
hung like trophies on your belt,
a bunch that keeps my jail.
Wake my spiders, they won't bite,
this armadillo escapes tonight.

Original
I lost every key,
even the ones I tied,
boot laces round my neck,
cold on my chest.

I've forgot their faces,
places I could find a laugh,
keyhole kaleidoscopes,
too much rust to turn.

All I need is the oil can,
painted red held by cobwebs,
locked inside the old shed,
I worry it might be empty.

I hear you at the door,
the sudden gust
takes the blossom too soon,
sucking life from every room.

Then I see them on your belt,
a bunch fit for a jailer.