The door to the bathroom is locked.
Behind it my mother with razors and pills.
I am nine and listen on the other side.
My friends are outside playing. I need
to keep watch. I know she wants
to be gone. I want her to stay.
Between my eyebrows fret breaks
ground. It will build its home there
and one day my face will carry
this story. It will have many
versions, all with me listening
on the other side of a locked door.