Bedroom Door

I stare at my bedroom door, mostly shut
but partially open - too frightened to
peak around its edge because I believe
there is somebody beyond the threshold
whom I do not want to see anymore.
I continue to stare at my bedroom
door, my logic lost amidst the many
permutations of these complications,
swirling in the abyss of never again,
never to be and never was in the
first place, misplaced in a time of my own
manufacture from my own dreams which slip
away as sleep itself becomes a dream;
impossible in the warm summer nights
spent idly reading, writing and playing
virtual football with virtual players
who are still so much better than my real
self and my own mishap filled control.
So I stare at my bedroom door, wanting
to leave while knowing it would mean coming
face-to-face with those who will devalue me,
abuse me, assault me, those who say they
care - and mean it too - but who will never
have the means to make their sense see my sense.
And even though I know that my landing
is as empty at three in the morning
as it was when I first became entranced
by the known unknown beyond, I just stand
and stare rather than open it wide to
reveal no apparition as I fear the
meaning of its absence’ enforced admission.