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.