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.