Similes like Dickinson

The maternal instinct,
sharp yet soothing—
like an airbag filled with chamomile,
deployed straight to the face.
It’s a punch, then a gentle cushion,
both forceful and tender.

Our friendship,
like the worn cutting board
I’ve not yet replaced,
though any hard surface would do.
It’s a worn-out thing,
perhaps overlooked, replaceable,
for now, it serves its purpose.

Take my annoyance,
like sharp-clashing bangles,
cutting through the air,
each step announcing discomfort,
a constant, jarring rhythm
that I can't ignore.

In the messages you send me,
like opening the mailbox,
hoping for a letter— a card—
but finding only junk and bills.
It’s muscle memory,
reflexive disappointment,
each opened envelope another letdown.

Please, wrap yourself in restraint,
like a blanket of each thought or feeling,
a gift meant only for you,
hermetically sealed tight around you.
Yes, sometimes it aches,
the need to share,
but perhaps silence is safer.

Once more, I am engaged,
like a bird trapped in a garage,
the door wide open,
both able to leave and unwilling to fly out.
The freedom is there—
Instead, the bird beats against the glass.