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We are the Daughters and Sons

of closed doors.

Locked windows.

We hid under covers.

Afraid of shadows

that walked our hallways.

Reflections that hid

in bathroom mirrors.

More than the monsters

under our beds.

Because when they

fought wars abroad

We fought

ours in kitchens.

And living rooms.

And bedrooms.

Like glue that wouldn’t stick.

Houses that wouldn’t right.

Homes that weren’t.

But they were.

Built by trauma.

And we.

Raised bitter.

By folks who didn’t know.

Any better.

But wanted us.

To be better.

Feel better.

Do better.

Than them.


at what cost?

The reason that Dorian kept his painting in the attic was because he was taught the worst thing we can do is face ourselves. Head on and not acknowledge the cracks when we see them. But the cracks still show and they still say enough and eventually the flood waters still come anyway.



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