By Stacy Clair
Fifteen pools of blood on the floor
Six pieces of splintered wood from the front door
The glass is shattered around me
Diamonds in a red sea
They left me here broken and alone
Right after they broke into my home
They pushed me to the ground when they forced their way in
There were three – no – four armed men
Counting the things keeps me calm
Right now, I’m counting the spasms in my arm
One, two, three – they’re beginning to slow
Maybe I’ve lost count, I don’t know
My eyes are closing, and I can’t feel my toes
Why couldn’t I be this numb when they tore off my clothes
I counted the cobwebs above my bed
Until one of them put the pillow over my head
I counted my breaths until I had no more
Next thing I knew, I woke up on this floor
I guess I should be thankful I never felt the knife in my chest
They left it just above my left breast
I don’t feel much like counting anymore
I’ll close my eyes for only a moment then I’ll try again to get to the door -