An Introvert's Hell Poem by Ayn Timmerman

The dark door is outlined,
a pinprick in the center,
& voices in the hall-
above and arround and outside,
sulfuric glow of a streetlight
on the wall,
cars and talking over the sound
of the old anxieties coming back
but I refuse to let it.
If I give in now,
on the first night,
I know I will snap shut again
and have to deal with it internally.
So I write in the dark,
while the peephole stares back-
If I look through it,
what will I see in the dark?