I closed the door to keep you out.
(To keep me in.)
Your voice went where it wanted.
Sitting on the bathroom floor and
digging my fingernails into my skin.
I couldn’t stop listening.

Mother, too busy hiding, didn’t
see. You were the disease she carried
home. One night I locked the car door
as you passed. You said, “You’re damaged goods.”

The door was bent against my back.
Shards of metal and splinters of wood.
Just another thing you’d broken.
You said, “Another thing I have to fix.”