Full of wood and the echoes of recent slammings.
I'm backed up against it and smell oldness, while being forced to hear all she has to say.
The door is my vertical torture table,
And I'm the subject.
And all I can do is wait for her
To end.
I want to go badly to turn around
And tear the door down.
But there is no door, or doorknob
Only walls to reflect my breath.
Where a door might have been,
Is now a sponge for humidity,
And a handle for misery.
My thoughts are all the same...
Leave
This jail
This caved-in cavern
This bottom of a corked bottle
This wormy eye on hot desert rock
Leave this and swallow the key.