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?
haaaaaan 3
FOUR
FIVE
SIX