Room 102

The ice smears the cobweb smothered walls,
Jack Frost on crystal meth,
daubing away with bitter emulsion
as she snort, snort, sniggers.
Oh, her kingdom for an Estella!
Hers would have let nothing in, nothing.
There have been men,
chasing skirts and dragons,
as she sat by,
berating, fellating, breaking.
Those days are past now,
a wry footnote that serve -
When accidently piercing her mind,
as they do more often than
she cares to admit -
only as a reminder
to numb the would-be escapees
of her lore
before they do any more damage.
Be vigilant,
she needs no invitation:
the first toe dip into unnecessary compunction
is her summons.
Should you spy her,
light your hottest fire.

Anna Russell