Metal coiled into circles.

Entrapment, fated.

Designs made of rust

remind me of the crust

that my sister hated.

How did I get here?

Why am I so trusting?

‘It’s just how it is, dear.’

The phrase, testing

my ability to remain

in a state of mind that resembles sane.

I can imagine

the other women

who have been

trapped here by these men.

Were they as terrified

as I am?

Were they petrified

by every slam

of his fist?