I left a part of myself behind your door on the last day of seventh grade;
and sputtered when I opened you,
but I didn't mind; for you had become a strange sort of companion
to protect my words that I wanted to keep hidden from
prying eyes and greedy hands
that are all too fast to hit "post" but
never stop and
to see where they're going.
nestled in the corner of the four hundred wing
with hundreds of identical lockers on her right side,
I can only remember you as a source of stability,
even though some days
you became jammed or broken
as children crowded the hallway nearby
in an attempt to descend stairwell C
to the three hundred wing.
I still walk past you every day
on the way to Mrs. Fisher's English class.
Your beige paint is chipping and you are covered
with a fair amount of graffiti
but I still love you,
I still do.