french doors

i used to sleep in a bucket of teeth. 
daylight kicking the windows. we were
using blankets as curtains. a horse escaped
through town & i took them in. 
hid them behind the french doors
leading to the front room. i told the creature,
"stay as quiet as you can." i am an expert 
at secrets. it's in my blood. in my family
we do not say how we feel, instead we 
harbor it like bullets of milk. the french doors
were the most beautiful thing about 
that apartment. chipped crystal knobs.
they made me wonder if once the place
was once sturdier. if once someone
opened the front door & said something
like "wow" & really meant it. i broke
a lot of promises there. i promised not
to invite strangers. i promised not to keep
the horse but i did. i brushed her hair when
no one else could see us. the doors
had waffle mirrors. tiny portraits of us.
one night when i felt really small i walked
the horse down by the fountains. we drank
sick water. the horse admitted that they
had overstayed their welcome & became 
a tractor trailer. blaring lights. it felt like
a betrayal. we were supposed to be 
soft together. we were supposed to hide 
our real wounded selves. the last week 
i lived there, the one door fell off its hinge.
it was like the walls giving in. "no more,"
they said. "no more," i said in return. 
i shower in lightning storms. i talk to candles.
the room opened like a gash. the horses,
so many of them crawling out
from behind the bookshelf & underneath
the sofa. i lied by omission. i lied wild too. 
ghosts in the cupboard. a cockroach playing
violin. we leaned the doors up against
the wall as we emptied the place. 
i left fragments there. my ghost still
tries to sleep in the light.