Cabinet

I put all the hurt words

here and here: they have four letters.

Name them.

Keep them like keys in your pocket:

unlock the rusty tetanus cabinet

and scrape them across the floor of your heart

so deep they gouge the floor

well up in red tears

scar over like railroad tracks into your past.

Catch!

Keep ‘em.

I’ve pried open the window

so sunlight and the smiling moon can peek in

and don’t need them anymore.

It’s an old house; used, the doors

have been kicked open and banged shut

but the cabinets here are full

forgiveness and trust aren’t just words

they’re utensils: used daily, a bit scratched

love is carefully dried and returned

even when it gets bent.

I won’t rebuild the foundation – it’s got good bones

even if I’ve pained or painted it wrong sometimes

there’s no need for keys anymore;

there are no more secret cabinets

no more silent hurt

no love that can’t be shown to friends

no trust that can’t be mended

when it matters