It was only a door,
a frame of wood and steel,
hinges that whispered secrets
every time it swung shut.
But one night, it broke —
splintered by words sharper than fists,
its edges warped by the weight
of slamming, shouting, silence.
I patched it with care,
sandpaper and nails,
a veneer too smooth to betray
the fault lines beneath.
Yet the wind remembers.
It presses through cracks too thin to see,
a cold draft that lingers in rooms
I’ve since repainted.
Even now, when the house is quiet,
I flinch at creaks,
of shadows moving too fast.
The door stands still,
but I am the one that warps
