They Build Me A Door That Only Opens Out

Taught me how to take a hit

before I could tie a lace.

Taught me pain is information,

taught me never file the report.

Good soldier, good son, good machine —

all the compliments they had.

Nobody ever handed me

the manual for putting it down.

They built me a door that only opens out.

Everything leaves. Nothing comes in.

I can carry anyone's weight all night

and I cannot ask for a hand.

Strong as a wall, and just as alone —

that's not a virtue. That's a design.

I can work a fever into the ground.

I can smile through a broken week.

And the second somebody asks me

how I'm actually holding up,

I hear my father's exact voice

telling me not to make it theirs.

They built me a door that only opens out

and welded the handle to the wrong side.

I can hold a hundred people up

and can't be held for a minute.

Strong as a wall, and just as blind —

walls don't know what they're keeping out.

SO I'M TAKING A CROWBAR TO THE HINGE!

FORTY YEARS OF GOOD BEHAVIOUR —

I'M PUTTING IT DOWN IN THE ROAD

AND I'M NOT PICKING IT BACK UP!

Somebody help me. Somebody help me.

Look at that. Nothing broke.

They built me a door that only opens out —

so I'm building a second door.

It's badly made. It sticks. It's mine.

And the first thing through it was a friend

with two coffees and no reason,

and I let him in, and I let him in.

That's the hardest thing I've ever done.