Locked Houses

I never had a key for a locked house,
until I learned to change door knobs myself.
There were broken handles, bent hinges, and holes,
but bungee cords secured insides at night–
unless sneaking hands wouldn’t cease.
Twenty years later, I still fear the dark,
I cannot sleep with doors unlocked,
I run away from the lights I turn off,
a creak in the hall wakes me,
as late-night knocks on windows still break me.

This entry was posted in Poetry.

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