Sometimes I like to pretend that my last name is Openthedoor

 

Everyone is always knocking, banging, shouting at me to open my door

But I like to sleep during the day

And stay awake at dawn

I like to watch the sunlight kiss my walls

I like to watch the paint on my windowsill melt into a palette that feeds my empty ribs

I like to count my ribs

 

One- for the breakfast skipped

Two- for the lunch date I didn’t feel beautiful in

Three- for the candlelit dinner you forgot to take me out on

Four- I am so hungry

 

The colors in my room make me think of marshmallows and clouds that I haven’t seen in days

Everyone wants to talk

I don’t know how to listen anymore

You knock on my door and ask me to open my locks

But I only hear your voice, muffled, giving me a new last name

Sana Openthedoor

 

I can’t

Waking up hurts

I know it before my sleep shoves me into twilight

Here is another day where I am still in the skin I hate

As the character in a book that has importance

But no fan following

 

I hate waking up

Manic depressive

I choose depressive each time

There is beauty in the softness of sadness

There is comfort in being alone

Dreaming of never waking up

I won’t open my door

Sana Openthedoor

The blood hasn’t dried yet

I need the rivulets of crimson to flow down the silk of my arms

I need them to become ochre and dry and barren as a desert

So my sleeves can cover the depressive of my manic

 

Sometimes I lie on the floor and look up at the fan moving at the pace of the planet

I wonder if my body is a planet

Uninhabited

Undiscovered

Hanging in the space between darkness and starlight

You are not allowed access

I will not open the door

 

My blood has dried now

Let me bask in the sting of the aftereffects of metallic bliss

Four deep bruises on my body

I will crawl out of my skin

And see who I am

Because I spend too much time wondering about who I was

I used to like her

I used to worship her

The hero of all my stories

The player who changed her fate

The little girl frowning at her boyfriend’s scars

The little girl carrying her mom from the prayer mat to the bed

Wiping tears

Saving face

 

One- my rapist

Two- my father’s affairs

Three- my body

Four- I will not open the door.