the room with the good lock

I chose this door for the way it closes: no click, just weight, the frame taking the hinge like it's been asked to keep a secret before.

Inside — a chair, a window painted shut, a stack of paper nobody's read. I keep meaning to burn it. I keep not burning it.

If you ever get in here, it's because I let the latch slip. That's the only kind of trust I have left.