Knock

Knock on your door.

You’re not interested.

How could you be?

Why would you ever want to talk to me?

The idea of changing your thoughts with a knock on your door feels like a high comedy.

Knock on your door.

You pushed me.

What gave you the right to lay hands on me?

The idea of a stranger touching me because of a knock-on your door feels like insanity.

Knock on your door.

You’re not listening.

Why would you bend your ear to the honeyed words of a girl dressed like a virgin on Sunday?

The idea an innocent saying anything of real weighted merit feels like an exercise in stupidity.

Knock on your door.

You’re not answering.

Why would you answer to a stranger knocking?

The idea of expecting anyone to was becoming obvious in its intrusive vulgar absurdity.

Knock on your door.

You’re not welcoming.

What is the message all these unanswered doors were sending?

The idea that this act was no longer something I would participate in willingly.

Knock on my door.

I am answering.

Why did it take so long to stop believing?

The idea of calculating all the time lost on this choice everyone made for me was infuriating.

Knocking that was awakening.

I answered the door with a rush of possibility.

What will my new life of no longer knocking bring to me?

The idea that everything is now on my terms healing my callused knuckles soothing the pain of knocking.  

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