I knock at the door, fingers bruised from repeated battery of this wood
In every touch, every sound, is a quiet, desperate plea for you to pay me heed
You don’t open.
Through the window by the door I see the outline of my heart in the shape of you
The wood scrapes my knuckles as I rest them there, not knowing what to do
Every assault is an intrusion, a violation, an artful necromancy of what we put aside
The bruising on my knuckles is nothing to the pain in my chest for forcing you to hide
You don’t open.
I am choking on the fumes outside, there isn’t a hint of oxygen in sight
Yet I am not allowed to beg more than by knocking, hoping you’ll see my plight
Already I am pathetic, reduced to praying for pity from you who can spare me none
Already it has been hopeless so long that my only resort is to let myself come undone
You don’t open.
Thank goodness for the frosted glass and this stout wooden door to block your sight
This way you’ll never even notice as I fall apart on your step, as I lose the final fight
All you’re waiting for is for the knocking to end, for me to give you peace and quiet
Give me a few more minutes that will last years, and I’ll try to make little fuss as I expire
Please open the door.