What Won't Stay Contained

The door won't stay shut.

I keep pushing it closed and it swings open

like it's laughing at me.

Like it knows I've been ignoring this for months,

pretending the latch was just loose,

pretending it would magically tighten itself

the way you hope problems do

when you don't look at them.

This morning it finally snapped.

The metal piece just hanging there,

useless,

a broken thing that was supposed to do one job.

I stand there holding the cabinet door shut.

My palm pressed against wood,

the weight of it—

heavier than it should be,

heavier than when it was working—

and I'm thinking about all the things

I've been holding like this.

Hands up. Keeping them from falling.

If I move my hand,

everything spills out.

So I don't move.

I just stand here

in the kitchen

with my arm extended,

my muscles already burning,

knowing this can't last,

knowing eventually I'll have to let go

and watch what happens.

The door's already halfway open.

I'm just the only thing

keeping it from finishing the job.