The Glass Between

Someone jiggled the door handle

and said it was broken.

Just said it. Casual.

And I felt the small electric shame

of being known.

I've felt the wobble in my hand

for two weeks, maybe three.

I'd just adjusted my grip,

made the loose socket work for me,

opened and closed it

like everything was fine.

But hearing someone else

say the word—broken—

made it real in a way

my own hands never could.

I watched their face shift

when they understood

the handle wasn't supposed to move like that.

I couldn't tell them I'd known.

I couldn't tell them I'd let it happen

by just—

by just not saying anything,

by accommodating the decay

the way you learn to work around

a faulty hinge,

a cracked wall,

a person slowly checking out.

The handle's still loose.

I checked it after they left.

My palm knows exactly where to grip

to make it seem like it works.