Door, Locked

In the morning

there was still paint

on my fingers

from fixing the door

frame

with super glue.

Last night,

I kicked it open

when you locked me out of the bedroom.

I only wanted to talk.

I still don't know what the fight was about.

And I'm too flawed to understand.

I think it's the fear

of being locked out.

Locked out of parent arguments.

Locked out of The Perini brothers' tree fort.

Locked out of feeling my own torrent emotions

for fear of having my masculinity questioned.

Locked out of too many bedrooms before.

I won't let it happen in my house. 

I won't let it happen in my bedroom.

I know that this won't open a door of conversation.

But in my mammalian brain,

it's a start.

One. Less. Locked. Door.

Strong women shout "No more glass ceilings."

The traumatized man sobs "No more locked doors."

So my foot rang the bell.

In one swift--albeit impressive--kick. 

I fixed the door lock

while you took a shower

and shed silent Irish tears.

This morning,

I cried in the bathroom. 

Last night I cried with a scotch in hand

in the kitchen after it happened.

I got to work

and cried in the cafeteria

while the children walked to class.

I didn't hit you.

But I scared you.

And that scared me.

I can't picture 

a world without you.

But I will gladly kick open a thousand doors.

Just to see your autumn eyes,

and your autumn hair,

and feel my autumn darkness

spill from my soul

and engulf our house.

Sometimes, I think it's the world that's haunted.

And not us.

And we're victims of the horror.

The horror of too much work.

The horror of too little money.

The horror of not having immortality 

to the point that death seems like a release.

That night,

I waited for you to fall asleep

and held your hand.

I learned my lesson,

and spent the next day

picking paint from my fingernails.