Genkan

the walls of my room are doors exposed when you stalk my perimeter squinting shut when I am gasping for air alone. you must have chosen me from a list of names and ages, perhaps photos. we had a boy last year, you mentioned over dinner. you wanted me to be here, your shadow slides through the thin paper walls and rattles across frail wooden bars and tatami. the door is open, but your gaze pierces elsewhere, a door restlessly slams into itself again and again. I fumble through my words like so many keys and jam every one. why, you ask, did you even come here when you cannot speak the language of doors. every breath stifles into a cold vaporous shell. on the precipice of a doorway hanging ajar and shaking, I wonder how much of myself is still left here.