It’s new, bright, fast.
A door blasted off a buckled hinge.
She’s splattered with all these images,
like horror film blood. Only real.
They slap her flat to the far wall.
She closes her eyes.
Feels them cling
slick to her eyelashes,
Before now, she’s not seen.
She’s not felt these hot, wet things.
How they razor in, saturate,
leave a permanent stain.
She can’t un-see them.
In glorious technicolour.
In hyper-real pixellated detail.
Especially when she closes her eyes.
The looming pores in their skin.
The broken veins and sweat
weeping at the hairline.
The dirt under torn fingernails,
the lumpy bruise-fade on
old-split with scar tissue tattoos.
She never saw all that before.
Never knew she’d want to.
Their eyes prowl for hers.
Their eyes, so big, pulsing
red lines cracking the whites
like unwashed public porcelain.
Pupils dilated to black oil.
Now she can see right in.
See what’s going on:
dark corner pleas and bargaining,
grimy stairwells and illegal fireworks.
She never knew she’d want this.
She looks away.
Before they can see into her.