Please Knock

I’m not holding the door open for him (letting the cold air pour in, numbing my ankles), but I’m not slamming it and bolting the lock either.

Right now I think the door is ajar, leaving me an indulgent and toxic crevice for me to peek out of, for those moments when I pretend I don’t know better.  Slowly but surely, I’m drawing it shut, and one day I know I will finally close it in peace.

But I know that I will not lock it — oh, not for a long time.  It means that a brief visit, a careless turn of the knob, will swing it wide again.  That frightens me.  I don’t want to let him in again.  I only want him back if he comes to the threshold with flowers, wipes his feet on the mat — plans to stay.

Journal.  1-28-17.  4 am.

-M.L.

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