doormat

maybe I’m a masochist 

or I’ve taught myself to enjoy the pain

but I wear the title of a doormat

as if it’s my middle name 

stranger’s steps carry all sorts of dirt 

and i politely lay,

collecting all of the hurt 

i begin to question the origins of my accumulated filth

if i had never offered, then I wouldn’t carry this guilt 

But I have “welcome” plastered on my face 

inviting lost soldiers,

a quieting and comforting place 

but just as the doormat exists, 

outside of the home.

Never welcomed in, 

nor shown the same love.