My tongue is stuck in a loop of a word. I want to cut it out, useless meat. I filled my cheeks with sidewalk, licked the rocks raw trying to get the word out. All my secrets rot.
At the end of the hallway is a door glowing green or angry or locked, jammed shut by what's behind.
Some doors get to stay shut. Some things don’t need to be revealed today,
I may tell you tomorrow. There is a broom I will never tell you about, a mountain I threw away, ashes I keep in a can under the bed. Close the door. I’m not interested
in feelings today. This can be the first time I let you down. I’m sorry is a hiccup. I’ll hold my breath now, try to swallow the room.
I’ve been handed a lot of keys I never asked for. This is your door. Sometimes I forget things. Keys made holes in these pockets
and my mother never taught me to sew, only to carry things. The best way to keep a secret is to forget it.
-- Emily Rose Kahn-Sheahan lives in Chicago where she hosts and curates the Mental Graffiti poetry series and Real Talk Livewhen she’s not converting coffee drinkers to the amazing world of loose tea. Her work has recently appeared in Columbia Poetry Review, After Hours, and TimeOut Chicago. Her chapbook, “Cigarette Love Songs and Nicotine Kisses” was published by Cross+Roads Press.