Thick skin

I lost every key,  
even the ones I threaded  
on boot laces round my neck,  
I hid them at the backs of drawers,  
blue-tacked under table tops  
but you still took them.  

I mind myself in unlocked rooms,  
respectful of what I was,  
sipping at the waterhole,  
holding host with all that sat,  
drinks would go flat and I would burn  
plastic in the ash trays  
of furtive conversation.  
 
Your words now fall ferrous,  
on childlike courage,  
iron fillings that move on your magnet
hidden by the true possessor.  
All I have left is a matching pole,  
ready to repel.  
 
I hear you at the door,  
your entrance snaps my mood  
takes the blossom too soon,  
damages nerves and I'm impugned  
once more.  
 
You take away and I subtract  
then watch ten years before I act,  
deep inside your cold rebuff.  
This armchair armadillo,  
has had enough.