I know that room inside you
where you go to hide
when you’re scared and
don’t want to be seen.
Where your back is turned
away, eyes lowered
if they’re even open,
shut against some shame.
And I’m beginning to think
shame is always a lie. To leave
the house without
mascara, and not have to
say anything to anyone.
To know the make of the wall
of that room inside us
tells me as much as glass
set against a dark back.
I have a thing for backs.
I can see where you shoulder
your heartbreak, can guess
where you feel cracked
concrete maybe poured
over your heart once,
and I can take the hand
that reaches for the hammer
with which to chip away
gently, gently.
