I leave the house.
Come back.
Pull the handle once,
then twice,
then once more
because three feels safer
than two.
The lock doesn't change.
Only my heartbeat does.
I wash my hands
until the water cools,
watching the soap disappear
faster than the feeling.
People call it habit.
They don't hear
the bargains I make
with things that never answer.
Some nights
I count the cracks
in my ceiling,
trying to believe
that if I finish before morning,
everyone I love
will still be here.
