There’s broken glass embedded in the carpet. Tiny fragments toil to keep crimson from being the only color our feet could recognize. Sometimes, the shards find their way into our skin. Some closed doors ago, the pain of feeling them buried into our skin was unbearable. Now it’s the easiest of the tumors to handle. The high from watching your body turn from solid, to liquid, to solid again is astoundingly metaphysical. Shameless, almost. We have to do this, they say. We all have to be broken in order to be reborn in glory. Some of us find that a lie, but who of us is strong enough to see what’s behind the door? These doors are heavy, these doors are cranky. Make a sound, lose an eye. Make two sounds, lose your life. My son is seeing dawn right now, and I wish I could see it too.