The Door
When I envision the door in my mind,
The edges are a black that fades from the inner border to a thick black outer edge.
The door feels like it towers over me,
It bows outwards as if a force inside is trying to push its way out.
The music is loud, however that isn’t the source.
Tonight, as I retreat to the bath, for the first time, I think I understand my mother.
The door is shut tight.
The glass is near.
And the music is loud.
silentstrong 