Open doors.

So I’m packing my things
Each photograph, wrapped separate,
Put into these flimsy little boxes
And piled in the hall.

And my clothes are tugged from the pegs
Shoved down to the floor
Piled, messily, angrily even
At the break in my OCD laws.

But I shove pieces of fluff into my ears
And drown out their bitter screams
Throw them with pace into boxes
Marked, ‘dresses which need a clean’

From their old musty smell
And old, dirty memories
Which cling to every wretched fibre
Of each shrunken, PJ tee.

Each with shame, each with tears
Stained on the shoulders,
Ripping at the hems
like blood hounds to carcass.

So I leave them in the hall,
Dust prints where my shoes have trodden
Ahead of myself;
To the swinging, emaciated door

Where the wood is chipped
And bitten and dead and dying
Or both,
Or neither

From the outside,
It is blue, with white panelling
Pretty, and well fitting
Golden handle glimmering bright

But from within its so misshapen
Horribly rounded and jagging
Gaping light, and cold air, cold breath
And I can’t shut it. Ever I think

So Im leaving, forever
But the door,
Remains open, my dirty laundry
In the air.