a long time ago i wrote a poem about living in a house full of closed doors
(i felt like my hands were not my own)

a boy in my english class read it and told me he lives in a house full of shame
there’s a hallway of closets but each one is the same
he said nobody would let him open the doors
but everybody wanted him too

i fell in love with him then
but i cannot love anyone in these decaying bones

i moved on but i know
that there is always something to be won
but i am no good at competition

every step i take away from you
you return stronger
the riptide pulls me in and i drown
nobody can hear me floating in the dark

you wait for me at the bottom of the stairs
the door is closed
my mind is closed
we are closed

i turn and leave,
dropping the keys in the bowl before i go