My childhood was like a cardboard box,
the kind with layers of reused duct tape strewn across different parts, barely
Able to keep it from bursting at the seams.
My world found a home within that box.
Somehow we were able to contain ourselves; each tear tells a story the duct tape can’t quite repair.
From the lightless nights and the Beanie Baby with red hearts on it, from the mysteries in the basement,
wondering what secrets lay in the bottom of those liquor jars, as remnants of pleasure danced around their lips. Nothing will be remembered come morning.
I would often wonder how the milky rocks came in.
There’s a twinge in my arm as I relive the daycare counselor who shot cream from his insides, projected onto our pictures on the wall.
My childhood was like that last shred of tape holding two sides at bay,
I learned early on how to hide deep enough, less we all burst open for
Having the audacity to live out loud.