Locked Doors – Alex Everette
On late nights, hard nights I think of the empty
room where you sit—where you
choke down rusted nails and chalk-dust
bread. Water drips between cement cracks into
cracked thirsty lips. I read the lines you
scratch onto stone walls about the ways
I think of the bars on your window. Do they filter
sunlight like the poems I wrote you when I
thought you were Persephone, joining me
down the river? I know better now—see better
now. You make believe
everything is okay
while debris crumbles from the ceiling. Do you still sing
through the collapse, the way you did
for us? On late nights, hard nights I remind myself
I’m free of you, without you, freer than you; nobody
can show you the falling walls and locked doors
if you don’t want to see.
Alex Everette is a Boston-based writer working on an English degree. He is also the managing editor for The Bridge at Bridgewater State University. What free time he has is split between between witchcraft, hiking, and his pets. His writing can be found in Up The Staircase Quarterly and Into The Void Magazine.
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