The door was stuck It wouldn't shut

The door was stuck. It wouldn't shut.

It’s like a wound that wouldn't cut—

no, it's just the house.

It rubbed against the frame all week.

I heard the wood begin to creak.

I took the paper, rough and red,

and sanded 'til the swelling fled.

My thumb is yellowed at the tip.

A hard ridge where the skin might rip.

I touched my cheek and felt the stone.

A piece of me that’s not my own.

It’s thick and quiet. It doesn't feel

the cold air or the morning meal.

It’s just a buffer now.