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Knocking at a Locked Door

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Wood Door-Liner skirting

Can you hear me?

Why keep me here, outside? Why not let me in?

I would say that we're a match made in Heaven, but that would be a cliché. Let's just say that we're halves of a whole.

I was there, you know, the day you were born. I watched them pull you out of your mother's warmth and into this cold place. I knew that you were for me. And that I was for you.

They treated you badly, didn't they? The uncaring faces, blurred like receding taillights in the night. They didn't get you. I do. I get every inch of you. When they left you alone, you didn't know it, but I was there, my fingers probing at you, trying to find cracks in your locked door. My hands are very nimble, my fingers long and thin, and I am very, very patient.

When the others laughed at your awkward attempts to connect, I stood silently in the hall, counting short minutes, little grains of rice, one by one.

When your mother sent you out into the street, I felt the hinges rust and grinned.

When that first full flush of heroin cooled you and dropped you to sleep, I caught you.

We are getting closer now.

Soon, I won't just be relegated to the hall. I won't be the familiar stranger, clawing at a locked door. Oh, no.

When the latch turns, when the door creaks open, I'll move in. We'll be fine companions, you and I.

You see, I know how to do... things. It's who I am. I know the things that will stain your hands crimson, that will fill your ears with cries and pleadings that are like birdsong.

We'll see things in a new way, together.

Each life is a universe, and each death the end of each personal world. Stories unfinished, works undone, a hole in the greater fabric. We will become spoilers. We will end worlds, you and I.

As long as you let me in.

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