Tempest’s teapot

I was the smallest in the 8th grade

4 feet, 10 inches of terrified.

Trapped in darkness--

Blinding, literal darkness,

scored with one slash of light

at the bottom of the door

--a bleeding wrist.

Like my body,

the closet was too small for the storm:

fear, sweat, tears, snot, salt on my tongue

as I bruised my fists on the door and begged

for help that I knew

was. not. coming.

Because it was Friday after school,

before spring break,

and half the class knew where I was.

They let the door lock with a click,

jackal laughter, and then all that was left was me.

Alone in the dark.

Trembling, I was a tornado, a hurricane,

of salt spray and the breath ripping

from my lungs.

I am going to die I don’t want to die.

Please someone please

Years later, I remember the door opening.

They told me it was only twenty minutes

but it felt like years,

like I had forgotten what light was

and warm and safe.

I had forgotten how

to breathe.

And I forget again, as, for an object lesson

the teacher shuts the door,

clicks off the light.

My ears ring with my rescuer’s words

“It must have been an accident.”

8 years and three inches later

I am still too small for this tempest.