this is the end

a line is outside
my door.
women mostly holding old letters
in one hand,
clubs in the other.
some are holding torches
over their heads.
they look tired
and mean.
some shout at the window
when I peek out.
we know you're in
there, they say.
we're coming in.
I duck down and crawl
towards the back
door, but they're out
there too. I hear them
on the roof,
chiseling at the tiles.
it wasn't supposed
to end this way.