Childhood •

the broken door squeaks,
as his boots clammer in,
sighing under his breath,
“fuck this place” yet again.

his breath smells of whisky,
and stumbles through the hall,
I lock my door and close it,
trying to hear nothing at all.

I turn on the tv,
blasting it as loud as I can,
make haste to retrieve my journal,
and push down on my ballpoint pen.
~ why does writing make me feel safe?

Childhood •

Happiness is watching my cat fall asleep,
Face first into my blankets.
~ It really is the little things.

Childhood •

I collected broken cigarettes
and crack pipes from the garden,
not much has grown since