Of something delightfully stolen
Displayed for the taking, a guilty
Pleasure gobbled behind closed doors
A house full of time
Unencroached by people who need
To consume hands on the clock, who never need
Stop. The chirping conversation disrupts my sense
Of being, a personality stolen.
The flavor of that moment tastes so guilty.
I watch insects’ metamorphoses through doors
Of disdain, all they need is time
To grow wings, to flower, only time
Will tell if they grow beauty. I need
To be complex like a chrysalis, have a sense
Of transformation that doesn’t feel stolen
From a sitcom. As an audience I’m guilty
Of hiding behind the back row with a back door
Escape plan. I wouldn’t dare use the front door
To Enter into an unused time
When people were direct, when the need
For transparency overrode the itchy sense
Of vulnerability once stolen
Irreplaceable. I let the seeping guilt
Soak through conversations, guilt
My fingers that I’ve shut the door
On. I forbid anyone to give the time
Of day, even when I need
Someone with a better sense
Of reality, who doesn’t look at stolen
Pieces of the mind as if they were stolen
Artifacts of an unloved life, coated in a layer of guilt
Each relic tucked between doors
Reinforced by blame. This time
I can’t help but need
Text to gain clarity, a sense
Of the stolen life starved for social time,
Written in hieroglyphs on doors barricaded by guilt
I gulp, can’t fill the need to make sense.
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