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.
But
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.
-JC