Hour 6: The door’s locked

The door’s locked against me

Or maybe it just sticks

as if it wants to guard against entry

or exit

Put some muscle in it and I’m popping the lock

Or the block

 

Behind it

The dirty, scarred file cabinet

where I store all the sorrows that took my tears

I’m empty of tears now

but I can’t have my sorrows staring me in my face

One day I might fill myself enough to face them again

This space that should be mine is not my space

 

Is it a room or a storage place?

Crammed with reminders

Of how none of the pieces of me fit

Together

Of how nothing that is mine is sacred

Reminders

Of how I don’t fit in here anymore

In this space that once was mine

 

This space is not my space

Not the refuge I sought

for gathering thoughts

crafting words

This space is a fort,

a last resort

Where I might survive the siege

 

If I push, I’ll see

The door’s not really locked

I just have to put a little muscle into it

Clear the debris

Enter in

Or exit?

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