Behind Closed Doors

We are different people
behind closed doors,
we should be the small cough
we try to hide but cannot.



This is another world.

It is behind closed this oak frame that you will see not me. Behind all the posters are reminders of a once beautiful past. Inside handbags are notebook diaries that are awaiting a day of unyielding flames. Inside memory boxes are packages that should not exist in the life of a sweet virgin. Hidden behind closed doors is my eroticism; black lingerie, chardonnay, long hours of soft giggles and sexy smiles.

It is here that you will find me in tears, where I will sob for no-one like no other. It is here you will find me enveloped in the arms of my dear sweet Rajah. It is here I will whimper long into the silent night. I will lay alone for hours into the dark night and watch the seconds tick over willing the darkness to take me with him. I will replay the hurtful moments once, twice- over and over. I will tear at my square cornered sheets as I twist and turn in my nightmares.

Behind the closed doors we all go to war. You said that the anger would come back, just as the love did. My battles with them are marked with crimson regret that fall from every inch of my beautiful olive hand. We are paupers behind closed doors, we drunken rats avert our eyes from the hunger that gnaws acutely. And yet what we hunger, that is what we fight so desperately against.



Do you know paralysis?

Once I was young and bold and left many unmatched people in the cold. But by two or three I learnt not to kneel and to plant my fires underground where none but the dolls, perfect and awful, could be laid down to die. But no one knows about behind closed doors. No one can open these doors, save those I invite personally. Yet someone splintered the strong oak frame. I kneel for one last time in hope mercy will come in time.