The Impending Doom of I Do

I, alone, was once the beholder
whose eye determined worth.
I would enter the room hips first.
Hands free at my sides. Shoulders
back. Chin up.
Alone.

I traded that loneliness to live
within the circle of his appraisal.

Now, my palms flatten against closing doors
to dampen the sound of my arrival,
to stretch the seconds between fear

[the weight of his hand in mine
is a metaphor for don't embarrass me]
and the finality of doors, once shut,
remaining so forever.

Love Letter

If you hold me up - spread
and flatten my body of text
against a lighted window,

the dull shape of my heart
will show through paper skin.