The doors are scissor blades –
sever us, give us space.
We exhale in sighs,
hot frustrated hand driers.
Our eyes flash colour, marbles
rolling around our sockets.
These flickering lids speak louder than we could.
We are sinking, quicksand drawing
us through floors as we complain
about the people
bumbling down the stairs.
The doors chime. We reapply smiles
The curtains are open,
we are actors, polite once again.