CITY

• I sit here with my phone in my hand and the door is closed. I look up and there is no knock.
  I stay alone now and there are no visitations or acknowledgements at my being. There are no confrontations that give rise to my tears. No Hello’s that pull me further away from myself.
  I work and eat and sleep and see the world with the only two eyes I have, like everyone else does. So what am I doing differently? 
  I see the problem now – I keep going back. There are so many pages on my desk right now where I could easily write down what my tongue refuses to blurt out. I’m grateful for my hands because they let me be mean and vulnerable without me having to admit it to myself.
  I love the way my hands rescind the sourness in my voice. So I sit and wonder if it would matter if I didn’t go back. Would it matter if I didn’t give myself the liberty to think back? If I keep myself busy doing something else?
  I hang these questions up on the wall opposite my bed. When my maid enters the room to clean it, she asks me, “Why do you write on the wall? You know it can’t come off.” I tell her I know but I can’t stop. Just sometimes I run out of pages and my hands give in to the desperation for peace. Even on days like those, especially on days like those, I write on the walls so I can look myself in the mirror again.
  Now I know the door will remain closed after she leaves, shaking her head and thinking to herself, “What a mess!” I like the door closed and my walls covered in my destruction.