"Through the Cracked Door"

My childhood was empty—
Bleak.

Not at first.
Through the looking glass,
we looked like the Hallmark dream—
smiles painted on,
love rehearsed.
A family photo framed in lies.

But behind the cracked door,
beneath the peeling paint,
through dilapidated windows and stained curtains—
you’d see the truth.

Abuse.
Trauma.
No lullabies. No warm embraces.
Might as well have strung the noose themselves—
wrapped tight 'round my throat.
My heart beat loud in my chest
as I heard my father’s footsteps—
a countdown to pain.
The only peace I knew
was silence.

Do they love me?
They must… right?

Mom—numb on pills,
Dad—gambling away rent money,
Dinner—skipped.
Bruises—not.
Blood. Scars.
Lies wrapped in lullabies that never came.

When do I get saved?

Foster care?
Another joke.
Another hollow house,
cracked foundations.
Smiles made of plastic and practiced phrases.
But when the social worker left—
it was back to beatings.
Back to blood.
Back to scars.

When does it end?

Wire wrapped around my heart,
blood filling my ears,
voices fade—
I’m fading.
I’m lost.

Fast forward.
Hit play.

I’m 16.
Homeless.
Ran away.

Found comfort in poisons—
drugs, *****,
and strangers’ arms.

My blood became my ink.
Pain became my voice.
Cold. Alone.
But finally—
free.