Doors.

She meant nothing to me

Nothing

At all

I

Loved

Her

Writing

Her prose

Her

Poems

Yet all her

Metaphors were

Doors

And all her

Doors

Were

Metaphors

Her writing

Though

Had a

Vitality

A

Life

Passion

Yet she kept

So much

Back

“It’s ok to

Think things”

She once

Said…

“But keep

Some

Of yourself

Back”

Behind those Doors

And all her

Similes

Were Doors

And all her

Doors

Similes

She wouldn’t say

That she

Loved to see

Her

Reflection

In

My eyes

As we made

Love

She wouldn’t admit to

Missing me

When I’m

Away

She’d put

Those

Thoughts

Behind her

Doors

And my one

Mistake

And

She

Smashed

Those

Metaphors in my

Face

One slip

And she

Choked me

On her

Similes

So I’m behind those

Doors

Locked

Out

Or

Is

She

Locked

In?