Let’s pretend you are a door and I slam you hard. You rock in your frame briefly and wonder why I’m so mad. You don’t say anything though, because you are a door. I wash you with a soft pink cloth the next day until you shine. I tell you I love you and I’ll slam you again. You forgive me because you are a door.
Let’s pretend I’m a door and you always walk through me. I try to look nice but my wood is splintering and my handle is loose. You don’t notice though, because I’m a door. It’s not until you get a splinter from my wood you see me. You tell everyone to look at how broken I am. I say nothing because I’m a door.
Let’s pretend two doors meet each other in a long hallway. Just a couple of doors out for a walk. “You look broken,” the polished door says. “You do too,” the broken door says. They lean against each other saying nothing else, because they are doors.
Bridgette Tales 