You keep your feelings
locked away in closets
on the 2nd floor of
the house you were raised in.
You hang your anger
on brass doorknobs,
tossed on display
absentmindedly.
It’s been a decade since
a pair of lips graced your own
and now, you never feel
quite at ease.
The candles in your bones
are flickering.
Soon the windows on your face
will melt.
But you must see that these days
as there is dust collecting on the mirror
and all your razors have grown dull
You keep sweeping in circles
I asked you to love yourself
while waiting for the arrival
of those guests for whom
you left open the front door
But then again, you’ve haven’t
yet invited anyone in
and certainly, as you remind me,
nobody will ever come knocking
So who will be there to make you feel at home?