I have spent much money over the years
for deadbolts, for a room in myself
that I want to keep locked, because I fear
what is in it. I painted the door the color
of the hallway, dark green, hoping my
eyes might learn to skip past the frame
as if a secret is only as heavy as the wood
that holds it. Sometimes, I can hear something
clawing, something ferocious that,
once loose, would be other than the self
I present to the world. It paces the perimeter
of my ribs, a rhythmic thrum, measuring
the distance between the person I’ve practiced
and the jagged thing that remembers how to howl.
Just when I think the thing in that locked room
has gone away, the scratching at the door begins
again. It is a persistent ghost, fed by the very
silence I use to starve it; it knows that every bolt
eventually rusts, and every wall is just a promise
waiting to be broken.
Often, I want to remove the locks and
let whatever is in there out, and then be free
of fear that stays with me as close as my
skin. The hinges are swollen with years
of holding back, and I wonder if I am the jailer
or the one being kept, if the key, once turned,
would be an ending or a birth.
The irony is that I want the beast. I need it.
In the end, it is the source of my creative energy,
the unchained wildness in my pen as I write.
Without the clawing, the ink would be water,
a sterile script of “pleases” and “thank yous”
that leaves the white page starving for a pulse,
one that compromises civility.
So, I keep the bolts, but I keep them oiled
and loose, acknowledging the danger of a mind
that refuses to be tame, knowing that to be
truly human, I must remain at least a little bit
unmade.
R. Nikolas Macioci earned a PhD from The Ohio State University. Nik is the author of twenty-three books. He was twice nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, nominated five times for a Pushcart Prize, and twice for a Best of the Net award. I know that is boring, but it’s the best I could come up with.