(Prompt: This image by piper60, via picturewritingprompts)
Closed doors aren't all that new to me. I've been pushing all my life.
Inside, I can hear them. Sometimes, they're singing holiday songs. Sometimes, the only noises are the gnashing of something fleshy in between jaws, maybe the slosh of milk or wine. Sometimes, they're shouting. Sometimes, they hit each other, but that doesn't scare me.
We hit each other out here, too. Some of them don't know when to stop.
Inside, I catch all kinds of smells. Some good. Some bad. Some weird and rank and vile, like potpourri. Who's idea was it to dry out flowers, to ruin them in such a way, to fill the air with a sort of sun-scorched rot? Still, that doesn't scare me, either. Sometimes, it smells nice in there.
We get smells out here, too. Some of them remind me of too many things. Some of them just remind me of too much. Most aren't good.
Inside? I like to think they keep futures in there. It's silly, I know. They keep futures in banks and bedrooms, not in the foyer where I might see them, scent them, hear what one sounds like. I could have been a poet.
We get poets out here, too. After. Always after. It isn't pretty, not one bit.
I've been pushing on these doors my whole little life. And yeah, I know. They've got those kinds of handles. They're not push doors, they're pull doors. Still, I can't stop my palms, the sides of my arms, my shoulders. I push and push and push, and I think I know why. I don't want in there.
We get them out here, too. Some of them need to stay in there forever.
Some of them should never be let out.
If I pull? That kind might just pull back.
It's not so bad out here, is it? Nah.
(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, as always.
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