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The Door Between Us

I packed my silence into boxes

labeled enough and no more,

carried them down the hallway

where your shouting still clung to the walls

like smoke that never finds a window.

You were always the storm in the kitchen,

hands trembling over spilled tea

and words sharp as broken dishes.

I tried to stand inside your thunder,

to understand why you burned

even as you froze.

But every call turned to ashes in my ear.

Every visit was another bruise

on the soft part of my hope.

I loved you—I still do—

but love can’t live on splinters and rage.

So I left you behind,

my sister, my echo,

with tears in my pockets

and your name a stone in my throat.

It hurts to walk away

knowing you’ll call me traitor,

but sometimes leaving

is the only way to stop bleeding.

Now I dream of you

standing barefoot in the wreckage,

maybe calmer, maybe healed,

and if that day comes

I’ll be waiting just past the doorway

with my hands openhoping you’ll walk out of the fire.