10-24-2025, 06:57 PM
Decided to write something by two different views. One a young child the other a mother.
The two Voices
(Invisible / Behind the Door)
I. Invisible
I walked the halls at night,
bare feet on cold tile,
the house breathing around me —
a soft hum,
a sound too alive to be empty.
Her door half-shadow,
air thick with gin and sleep.
I stood there,
small enough to be forgotten,
close enough to remember everything
My hand pressed wood —
it felt warm.
Inside,
glass clinked,
a low sigh,
Consciousness
slipping away.
I whispered out Mama.
The word didn’t travel far,
just bounced off the door
and fell back into my chest.
The silence after
was heavy,
a hand that never reached back.
Sometimes I spoke to it anyway —
as if the dark could answer,
as if the walls could open.
One night,
I poured her bottles out.
The smell rose sharp,
like something burning.
She woke,
and shouting came fast.
Her voice tore through the house —
through me —
Yet still,
it felt better
than quiet.
For a moment,
her eyes met mine.
I think I smiled.
I think I thought
that must be love.
Years blur.
But sometimes
I find myself there again —
hand on the same door,
waiting for her voice,
any sound
to say I’m real.
II. Behind the Door
(mother)
Nights I sometimes heard you —
small feet on tile,
a cabinet click,
a breath held like a secret.
I told myself you slept.
That lie was easier
than what waited
beyond the door.
Bottles made my world quieter,
dimmed corners,
blurred edges
of what I couldn’t face.
But your whisper — Mama —
cut through everything.
Found me
even when I hid.
Sometimes I pressed my hand
to the same wood you did,
hoping the door might open.
I wanted to speak.
Mouth full of ghosts.
Love came out wrong —
a shout,
a fire,
your name burning through smoke.
You flinched,
and I hated myself for it —
how even anger
sliced more than absence.
I saw your eyes looking at me
clear, afraid.
For a moment
I remembered who I was supposed to be.
But night closed in again.
And I let it.
Years soften shame
but never erases it.
Now, when floorboards creak,
I still think of you —
barefoot,
waiting,
hoping the door might open.
I whisper your name
the way you whispered mine.
Too soft,
too late,
but still —
I whisper.
The two Voices
(Invisible / Behind the Door)
I. Invisible
I walked the halls at night,
bare feet on cold tile,
the house breathing around me —
a soft hum,
a sound too alive to be empty.
Her door half-shadow,
air thick with gin and sleep.
I stood there,
small enough to be forgotten,
close enough to remember everything
My hand pressed wood —
it felt warm.
Inside,
glass clinked,
a low sigh,
Consciousness
slipping away.
I whispered out Mama.
The word didn’t travel far,
just bounced off the door
and fell back into my chest.
The silence after
was heavy,
a hand that never reached back.
Sometimes I spoke to it anyway —
as if the dark could answer,
as if the walls could open.
One night,
I poured her bottles out.
The smell rose sharp,
like something burning.
She woke,
and shouting came fast.
Her voice tore through the house —
through me —
Yet still,
it felt better
than quiet.
For a moment,
her eyes met mine.
I think I smiled.
I think I thought
that must be love.
Years blur.
But sometimes
I find myself there again —
hand on the same door,
waiting for her voice,
any sound
to say I’m real.
II. Behind the Door
(mother)
Nights I sometimes heard you —
small feet on tile,
a cabinet click,
a breath held like a secret.
I told myself you slept.
That lie was easier
than what waited
beyond the door.
Bottles made my world quieter,
dimmed corners,
blurred edges
of what I couldn’t face.
But your whisper — Mama —
cut through everything.
Found me
even when I hid.
Sometimes I pressed my hand
to the same wood you did,
hoping the door might open.
I wanted to speak.
Mouth full of ghosts.
Love came out wrong —
a shout,
a fire,
your name burning through smoke.
You flinched,
and I hated myself for it —
how even anger
sliced more than absence.
I saw your eyes looking at me
clear, afraid.
For a moment
I remembered who I was supposed to be.
But night closed in again.
And I let it.
Years soften shame
but never erases it.
Now, when floorboards creak,
I still think of you —
barefoot,
waiting,
hoping the door might open.
I whisper your name
the way you whispered mine.
Too soft,
too late,
but still —
I whisper.