The Door’s Insistence

That rattling screen door screams

like a warning or a secret.

Its chipped paint flakes like dry skin,

and every slam carves the afternoon open.

I’m caught between inside and outside,

the buzz of flies and the still hum of AC.

The hinges groan with stories,

and the sun burns through the holes.

It’s not just a door—it’s the crack in the wall,

the space where things slip in or out.

I stand too close, ears catching the clang,

and wonder what it means to be on the edge,

waiting, rattling, waiting.