Sometimes, you shut the door, only to realize you actually left it open just a crack, the barest sliver of light coming through to mar the perfect crease of that closure, a glimmering little reproach for once again lacking the ability to have done with it.

Sometimes you push at that door and then walk rapidly away, not bothering to turn around to make sure it's secure, not noticing that it's actually wide open, a garish neon flood of remembrance filling your corridors and blazing from your windows, a too-bright feeling of deja-vu and dread just waiting to catch up with you at some point.

Sometimes you shut it quick and hard, the sound like a smack reverberating in the cool darkness, and you feel that sting of indecision that prompts you to open it back up, once again accepting the placebo warmth that will almost certainly become a desert, stifling you in it's barrenness and leaving you high and dry, sapped of fortitude and indignation, till you crumple and cease to cry out against it.

Sometimes you slam it so hard that the bricks and mortar crumble, the foundation sliding into the tangled, fetid, labyrinthine mess you once called love, brittle concrete skin and rusted iron joints mixing with the twisted, sordid inhabitants of what you used to feel was home, the facade falling so thoroughly that all that remains are ashes and fragments of bone and spirit, around a wide gaping hole from which nothing more will ever spring forth, not love or friendship or kindness...not even hope.

Sometimes you close it softly, apologetically, hands gliding over familiar textures, the smooth luster of polished wood and the cool gasp of metal playing under your fingertips, and you sink to your knees and lean your head against that door, the known elements intruding on your peace of mind, the security of it, however false, forcing tears of goodbye, traces of loss and longing being left behind for anyone to identify, and it's only when you stand up much later and you feel the ache and pull of your body and the throbbing of your head, do you realize what regret can cost you, and how lousy you are at walking away.

Sometimes you walk down that hall, shoulders squared, chin up, an even-keeled stride and a clear weather eye, you walk towards that door and gently but firmly, no apologies here, you shut it, palms pressing till you hear the lock catch, staring at it directly, unflinchingly, recognizing it for what it was, for what it will never be, recognizing that beyond anything else, beyond precaution and the possibility of pain and personal intrusion, it is a necessity of the spirit, a demand of the rational mind, and it won't matter if you cry and rage and despair when you walk back down that hall -because it won't be you merely lingering without purpose, holding on without promise, it will be you grieving, as it is right to do for the dead.






Sometimes you write a letter, for no purpose than to let loose the words that crowd your mind mercilessly, the thoughts and feelings having gone unexpressed, the perpetual emotional return-to-sender scenario, finally given an opportunity to provide an explanation and a formulate a question, knowing full well that you'll perish for your principles, and be punished for your possibilities, knowing how vulnerable you already are and the nakedness behind putting forth such sentiments, you know that likely it leaves you impoverished, if wiser, hungry but not dependent on the milk of human kindness, in pain but at least it won't be a prolonged ache...it will make things cease to rattle your cage, a cleansing sort of self-flagellation, proving that you've got a stronger stomach than you ever gave yourself credit for, a straighter spine and a stiffer resolve...

Sometimes you write a letter, or shut a door, to prove you're not afraid. Not of what they can do to you, not of what monsters they possess...but of yourself.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't.



Most times, you'll never know.

11/09/2008

Author's Note: Not really a poem I suppose, though poetic justice...regardless, it needed to be said...

Posted on 11/10/2008
Copyright © 2025 Therese Elaine