When I was a girl,


I used to think that behind every door

Their lay two possibilities,

And depending on the exact second I turned the handle,

The precise moment I twisted the knob,

each minuet detail would align

deciding which reality I would open the door into.

I would sit in my room,

Pre-occupied with youth,

But always watching that door through the corner of my eye,

Waiting for the eventuality of someone bursting through it

carrying their life and their reality, their individual complexity, with them.

I would marvel, my eyes flecked with the sheer wonder

Of such spectacular power,

And be caught in these moments of reverence,

Where I would submit to my lack of control,

And pledge, my faith adamantine.

Sometimes it would get in the way of my going-ons,

As this asphyxiating anxiety would cause me to stand, motionless,

Behind that inanimate frame of wood for hours on end,

Worried that the current of life I drifted on through the door,

Would not be the right one.

Albeit, this turned out to be one of those phases

That plague the fantastical minds of a child,

And as I grew older and dismissed many of the frivolities of youth,

So I dismissed this notion as well.

But I could not escape it,

As it lay inside of me as a dormant, but malignant thought,

And it eventually manifested itself into an evolved

Fascination with spontaneity.

I slipped cautiously through life,

Always aware of the significance of that door,

And how it could change,

It could pervert,

Everything.

One day I met a man,

Who skin stretched across his face like a lazy alabaster reminder,

And he took my hands,

And together we traced the lines of his skin.

I noticed the quantum effluence of his geography,

And the collective

Other times I notice the authority of his voice,

As if inside his mind there is a door,

And behind is lays a vast expanse of water,

Perfectly still in its rationality.

Sometimes I hold discourse with myself

To gauge the inequity of my

Thoughts, and I often arrive at the same conclusion:

That in his expanse of still rationality

I am the undercurrent masked by layers of opaque convenience,

because I find it impossible to stop moving,

Because there are always things that I am running from,

And there are more things that I am running to.

And sometimes I tell him, that I think

That people, apologize, too much, for their sadness,

And that I don’t believe in make-up,

Because I think every person should wear

Their sorrows like thick black eyeliner.