Door


how many ways to shut a door
gently, softly with a little click, roughly with a slam, quietly with a whisper, hard enough to pull a hinge, soft enough so that someone walks into it thinking it was still open, with a spell, a door sealed, a key swallowed, a lock crumbles so the edges melt into the frame, a doorbell carefully smashed.

a talking door that laments being a door, insists on being a wall, asks from the universe for its next reincarnation to be just that: a wall, tall, in a tiny hall, leading nowhere, facing a window which opens into another brick wall so you can’t even jump out of it.

a door that is a jar (ha ha), secrets in the jam (ha ha).

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

tiredly.

it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore.

there’s nothing to say, do, or be done, anymore.

one day my lips melted together with my tongue, and new skin grew along my new face: eyes, a nose, and ears.

no one notices.

no one knocks.

there is no door.

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