The door hinge is rusted and unbolted on one side.

It creaks as though the wind won’t let it sleep.

The knob rattles and is worn through ‘round the middle,

From all these years I’ve been opening up.

I look like a fool, carrying a pile of tools up to my eyes,

Up the stairs, dropping the can of paint,

I’m in your old T-shirt, none the less.

The only thing I have that’s already ruined.

You slammed the door in all your histrionics,

Leaving a deep crack down the middle.

Spider-webbing through my veins.

The man at the Home Depot said it was no use trying to fix.

But damn it all if I didn’t buy three different brands of sealant.

I sat there on a rainy Sunday, sanding,

Willing all the rough edges away.

The dust fell and speckled my eyelashes,

Making me sneeze and making me wish you were here.

I tried putting sealant in the crack,

Muddying up my fingertips.

Forcing the filler where only wood should ever be.

When it dried, it was overt,

Pathetic in its attempt to blend things over.

I’d painted the door blue for you,

Because you loved the sea and the sky and all other mysterious, untouchable things,

Maybe that’s why you couldn’t stand my chapped lips.

After two coats and four hours,

I told myself it was as good as new.

But if you got at an angle you could see.

Where it was sanded uneven,

Where the sealant bubbled over, compensating,

For the many fractures.

I look like a fool again, ratty, paint-caked hair and tired eyes.

Leaning against a cracked door for support, not even dry.

I rinse the paint out of my hair in the shower,

Rub the sawdust out of my eyes,

Watch it trail down my tired, wet body.

Watch the paint run down my chest, my hips, my legs, pooling around my feet,

Your shirt couldn’t keep it off my skin .

They tried to tell me it was no use trying to fix it.

And damn it, I gave it all I could give.

But I’m no carpenter.