The Lock

I check it three times.

The deadbolt catches—

the sound of it matches

what I heard at eighteen

when I was alone in the house for the first time.

I walked through every room

checking locks, checking glass,

checking every way something

might slip past.

My hand on the cold metal.

The same hand from then.

Same ritual. Same metal.

Same thing I learned when

I was young and scared

and thought that checking

could keep the scared away.

My partner is gone.

The apartment is mine

except it's not mine,

it's a place I can't stay in

without testing the locks,

without listening to the silence

like it's a language

only my hands understand.

Twenty years between

that girl and me,

and she's still here—

still checking the deadbolt three times,

still standing in the dark

like there's something waiting

for me to forget,

for me to slip,

for me to finally let something

slip in.

I go to bed.

The metal is still cold

on my skin.