The Door

They arrive, uninvited,
With a facade of generosity and care.
I know them.
And I know that I will be left to clean up the mess.

My femininity waits patiently in the kitchen
For them to assist,
For them to take the lead
This time.

My masculinity insists that I leave them behind,
Much to my discomfort.

But they brought a stranger into my house, uninvited,
And they gave this stranger a power over me that I cannot deny,
Only evade.

This stranger's power shines so brightly that it blinds me
And illuminates my darkness.
Yet I can see that the stranger has a darkness, too.

My only sanctuary is the tomb that I paint for myself.
Empty, but calm.
Plain, but safe.

The door I paint is locked
So that I may hide
From the darkness that they see in me.

Yet in my tomb, my sanctuary,
I feel abandoned,
As I did not want to paint this place
But have been exiled to it.
I have been left here.

For on the other side of the door
I have been painted as a monster.
The root of their evils.
The reason for the mess
That I did not make.

My very being longs for them
To see all of me.
Longs to remind them that my powerless light outshines my darkness.
Longs to convince them to paint a different picture.

But truth and memory are no match for the devil shift.

So I cannot exit
And they cannot enter.

Yet my femininity still waits in the kitchen.
A fool, to my masculinity.
A fool, that is burdened with the mess
That I did not make.

But in my tomb,
I cannot clean, I cannot tidy,
And I will not clean, and I will not tidy,
For I will only exit the door a monster to them.

A painting that is not me.

A painting that they invented
Through the facade of generosity and care.
Embellished with the stranger's paintbrush,
Framed by my exile.

My light,
My value,
My strength
Visit only in my exile, my tomb, my sanctuary,
And cannot be seen
On the other side of the door.

Written January 2019 in Denver, CO