quietly, in the lock-piece on an office door
bare metal scratched with dried scarlet
chipped nails pale, pieces of broken skull
rest in the crevices like a thirsty battlefield.
the rusted key she had once given me
snaps into halves on the passcode lock
her birthday, her number, their anniversary
the lifetimes i've run dry, my last heart
hidden in the bloodstains on her palm.
if my fingertips are the errors, delete me
from codes in the scripting of this world
and i hope my door to her is forever locked