there are doors here at three o'clock
but i cannot bend my words to fit the silence-shaped lock.
i pound and pound with bloodied fists
but the doorknob just looks at me with distaste
and asks me if i think filling the room with tears will work.
"after all," he says, "i won't drown
i'm just a figment of an inanimate object."

the darkness brings a kind of confusing clarity
that masks itself as apathy
in the midday sun
i run my hands over my hair
wondering if cutting it would do me good
i do the same to my throat
"after all," i say to the doorknob, "i won't drown
i'm just a figment of an inanimate object."

his brass shines with contempt
he tells me the english language is a far cry from emotion
and so is blood
he goes on, explaining understanding is not speech
but the inflections and pauses of things not said
he tries once more, wearily, as if i am a lost cause, and cannot learn
"emotion and understanding are the juxtaposed ends of magnets
drawning and repelling.
you have neither, so carry on. you won't drown 
you are just a figment of an inanimate object."