What Light Shows

My friend stood at the door

and the sun came through sideways,

right through the broken mesh,

and I saw her see

the way I live—

not bad exactly,

but unmade,

the dishes still from breakfast,

the couch with the indent

where I've been sitting.

The aluminum frame is bent at the bottom,

the mesh pulling away where it should hold,

and I've been meaning

to call someone, to fix it,

to make it functional,

to make it a door again

instead of just an opening

with delusions about protection.

She didn't say anything about it,

just stood there in the light,

and I realized that the broken part

wasn't the worst part—

the worst part was that

it didn't matter anymore,

that I could see her seeing in,

and I was too tired to be embarrassed,

or maybe I was embarrassed

but I'd run out of the energy to perform

like the door still worked,

like I still had a barrier

between my life and someone else's eyes.

She came in anyway.

The door swung back

on its hinges,

which still worked fine,

which was almost funny—

the part that mattered still functioned,

the part that was supposed to keep things out

had already failed weeks ago,

and I was the only one

who noticed.