I shut my door closed
cracks filled up with dry moss
and old blood.
I pushed fingers
into every crevice, forcing flesh into keyholes
[ how many fingers this creature has ]
No wind, no breath
could break the bones
that crawled inside.
I left my door closed
to not replace old coffee stains with fresh pus
[ each drop of crimson stays inside ]
How hard is to fill the black holes
that polluted the polished wood
drilled by the worms; eaten by
curiosity.
What lays beyond?