the doors here don't close.

they're swollen with rain

like lights bruised with moths.

the sun throws a bone at the dog

and the dog throws a tantrum at me.

in the hollow of its bark i find the echo of a limp:

a speeding car, a hot iron rod, a rabid taste.

there's a pulsating gap between me

and my family, where what they don't know

collides with what i can't tell them.

feels like i'm walking on eggshells

that, occasionally, flare up into shards of glass.

when indifferent, i feel like an accident.

when i care, i feel like a mistake.

i'm a door swollen with hate

enjambed by rigorous, frigid kindness.

i won't close. you'll be seen. art quickly.

when you say art, asks keene

do you mean act?

no, i reply, chewing on my bone

throwing a tantrum at the sun.

~ ajay

19/12/2023