I grew tired of keeping it open
all the time.
The draft from his ghost was
nearly unbearable.
Although it seemed but a breeze
to some,
it had a tendency to bring me to
my knees
every single time it wisped past
my memory.
My hands grew calloused with
splinters from the wood of his disdain.
My feet became bloodied with
blisters from being the wedge between his abandonments.
My reactions intensified with
immediate palpitations from the daggers in his mendacious eyes.
My core is becoming weaker by the
minute trying to keep you from opening this creaky door.
With all of my might, I hold
myself against it,
sweat pouring from my skin.
My battle going unnoticed,
with the wood stains beginning to
camouflage my despondency.
I am slowly losing this fight,
while you maniacally knock at a
tune too catchy to ignore.
I just can’t.
I can’t open myself up to you,
because I know the second that I
do,
your curious knocking will instantaneously
stop in absolute disgust
as I reveal the woman I really am
just waiting
behind the door.
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