When I was young you promised that I never need tiptoe around the truth
and that every word would enter each ear without a single shout.

But what if I cannot tiptoe to you?
If the door between us is bolted
Or uncorked amber stops your ears
And that deafening shock of sound
of tremors from the bending walls
that creak and swat waves of uncanny aches
in hopeless defense against the attacker
that slams the unconscious by blind accident
and you with intent?

If I cannot tip my toes in your direction nor remove you from your situation,
then I will tip my noggin that this throbbing conscience is not all there is and exit exists.