“I have opened it.”
–Alfred Tennyson’s last recorded words

marrow cage
pinned under his sex and a
a grab for steady wages,
three thousand pages of

unique rejections
and my wrists are bound
together by self denigration.
a noticeable attachment to water,
currents or anything that’s
palpable,
a noticeable longing for windows.
my veneration for absence.

a noticeable longing for door knobs,
my admiration for sadists
and what they take,
an unwavering self-beratement
tightening the joints of bone bars,
my masochistic streaks
and the interminable door
slamming shut
and less concerning to me:

a noticeable absence of love.

“door #1”

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