If I Were a Poet

In my house
there are a thousand rooms—
some too small
to hide a secret
and others so big
they could hold the world.

There’s a room decorated
with pictures of people I’ve hurt,
people I wanted to hurt,
and even a few I tried to love.

There’s the room
where I lost my virginity,
and there’s the room
where I lost my hope.
There’s a room for pain
and one for each kind of pain.

And, like in a horror movie,
there’s the room
at the end of a long dark hall,
with its door always closed.
My mother told me
never, ever
open that door at night
if I hear a child
crying inside,
especially
if it sounds like my own voice.