I know the weight of my door
better than I know my own conscience.
I feel the friction of its hinges more
intimately than the tremble of my wrists
that comes from hunger and
neglect. I am always alone
behind my door. I push with precise
force outwards. I contain the contagion
inside this well-worn cell. I know
nothing else will make sense.

I have more experience with doors
than with windows. My room has
one window. I have never opened
it. Is my only hope at knowing you
already rusted closed? My door is
well-greased for easier closing
which is its main purpose. Keeping
myself safe behind wood and lacquer,
I am alone. Without you, I am
alone with you in my closed room.

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