he's dead and now i'm eating cracked soap

drinking days of mouthwash

splitting off flimsy flakes of fingernails

to want

to want to want to want

to have him back

absently splitting split hairs

no matter how hard they push this door

to coerce 

his 

my

white door to open

i've that shine to my neck

holding our high door shut

threatening them incase

they get in

get me out

that's it then isn't it?

it's real

my museum of you

of us