I feel like robbed of my vocabulary. My tongue is hiding behind my palettes, as if a child underneath the blankets. Afraid of the monster in her closet. No, it wasn't the walls. Although I can feel them, every inch, every piece of cement, every bit of the pungent smell from the paint ages ago, every chipped color. Coming, closing, crashing, inch by inch, into me. Trapping me; all these four walls. Confining me to my thoughts. Poisoning me with my own blood. They're smart, I tell you. They let you eat yourself alive with your thoughts, regrets, misgivings and misinterpretations. Very hideous too, these walls. They're not always four, they're not always concrete, they're not always covered with paint. Sometimes they're your people, the voices of your conventional support, your strongest foundation. Sometimes it's you. Most of the time it's you. Most of the time, it will be you. You are your own criminal, your feral poison. You are the savage beast, the most grotesque of them all. The monster in the closet, it's you.