graphite

My wall has many doors

A different hinge and destination

Pastel, ink and pencil.

I break a piece of blood-filled charcoal

To fit into every key hole

So that the others can look in.

To see my flesh and bones

To see what fingertips can create.

Rust can have a vise-like grip

But I can paint it over

The dry sound of nails scraping across canvas

Until the smell of acetone and acrylic

And the bitterness of rain

Will coat my tongue and throat.

I will sit in my room and watch

The thunder behind my eyes

The lightbulb sway back and forth

The storm won’t last long

My pencil won’t break.

Wood is supple but strong.

A remnant of a grazed forest

Dappled green, just one door away.

The entrance is broken but

I can open the doors again.

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