The Closed Door

Hi, my name is Thomas, and I have a problem.

*Hi, Thomas*

So, I don’t know when to begin this tale,
Maybe it was when my father turned tail and
Ran from all the problems he’d ignored for so long.

The boy sat in the stale air outside of a door
Closed, sealing both in solitude.
He just wanted to be normal, throw a ball.
He wanted to be alone with his thoughts and his Maps, guiding him to imagined bliss.

The door was old and crooked and too loud to
Crack without breaking the man’s concentration.
Too scared to knock, too scared to be an Inconvenience, a bother, a son.

The boy, now a man, is sat in the cool fall
Air, it felt like daggers in his lungs as old
Pain came forth from the back of his mind

Was he good enough?

He scrolled through the messages, the binary
Request for affirmation, for affection for the
Love he’d never felt returned from a closed door.

The apartment door behind him opened and he felt
Excitement quicken his pulse. He turned to see a Stranger, her friend, not her, of course.

She smiled weakly, uttering another’s halfhearted
Apology, depositing the cross and medal into his
Hands, shaking with anger and sorrow.

This boy felt more than he should, so much it was
Unhealthy — that’s what his friends say to make him
Calmer, when his dizzy mind finds a new object of
Misplaced affection.

He develops these feelings for those who give him
Hope, the ones who make it seem like the door might
Crack, and no retribution will come of it.

He falls for those who bring him a brief moment of
Comfort, those who lift the weight of that heavy
Cross that cuts too deeply into his shoulders.

Who makes him feel good enough
Who might want to play catch
Who might want to play house.

He replaces one addiction with another saying he’s
Cured, but he can never fill this void, this
Empty space where the love should have been.

He’ll never feel good enough.

Hi, my name is Thomas, and I have a problem.

*Hi, Thomas*