The Two Voices (invisible/ behind the door)

[Bitnee]

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.

[Bobby Francis]

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.

I like the concept. I think this is a good early draft. But a few things: I am not convinced that the two voices sound distinct. Consider using different styles for each character. 

I know this is not directly related to poetry, but I when I read your concept I immediately thought of the Cat Stevens’ song Father and Son, which successfully uses two different voices for each character. 

Stevens was aided in this because it’s a song and there are musical things he can do that can aid in this aim that you can’t do in writing. But you can still translate it to writing by understanding that the father in Stevens’ song the father has a calm voice to the point of near detachment, a central complaint by the son’s more passionate energy. 

Now you flip this here, where the child’s plea can be emotional by calmer presentation, and the mother’s voice more passionate and chaotic. Maybe the child’s plea can more lyrical and the mother’s response more coarse and chaotic? Do it how you want, but make these voices more distinct. 

And for what I was expecting, emotionally, the poem falls short. The imagery is just too vague to convey the kind of emotional resonance a poem like this should have. Give me more scenes of the neglect (abuse?) and more imagery that demonstrates the point. Show the neglect. Don’t just tell us or touch upon it.

[Bitnee]

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.

I like the concept. I think this is a good early draft. But a few things: I am not convinced that the two voices sound distinct. Consider using different styles for each character. 

I know this is not directly related to poetry, but I when I read your concept I immediately thought of the Cat Stevens’ song Father and Son, which successfully uses two different voices for each character. 

Stevens was aided in this because it’s a song and there are musical things he can do that can aid in this aim that you can’t do in writing. But you can still translate it to writing by understanding that the father in Stevens’ song the father has a calm voice to the point of near detachment, a central complaint by the son’s more passionate energy. 

Now you flip this here, where the child’s plea can be emotional by calmer presentation, and the mother’s voice more passionate and chaotic. Maybe the child’s plea can more lyrical and the mother’s response more coarse and chaotic? Do it how you want, but make these voices more distinct. 

And for what I was expecting, emotionally, the poem falls short. The imagery is just too vague to convey the kind of emotional resonance a poem like this should have. Give me more scenes of the neglect (abuse?) and more imagery that demonstrates the point. Show the neglect. Don’t just tell us or touch upon it.

Thank you I was thinking the same thing since I’ve been reading it over I’ve been jotting notes about the different voices and also finding a way to show the neglectful experience in a more emotional way!

[Bitnee]

Decided on a follow up version. I’m not so sure about this but maybe it is a bit better that what I have posted before.

Two Voices at the Door

⸻

CHILD

I sit on the floor outside your room,
knees pulled in,
cheek against the door.

The house smells like glass and sour sweetness.
I can hear the bottle when you lift it.
That sound tells me
which you came home as.

I whisper your name.
Then louder.
Then I knock—
soft at first,
like asking permission to exist.

Please.
I’ll be quiet.
I’ll be good.
I won’t need anything.

Sometimes I press my ear to the wood,
just to hear you breathe.
Even anger sounds better
than nothing at all.

When you don’t answer,
I cry into my sleeve
so you won’t hear how much.
I tell myself
you’re just tired,
that love is resting
behind the lock.

Once, I took the bottles
and poured them down the sink.
The smell burned my nose.
I thought maybe
if the noise stopped
you would come back to me.

You came out screaming.
The walls shook.
Your face looked wrong—
sharp, unfamiliar.

I stood still.
Heart racing.
Terrified.
Relieved.

At least you were looking at me.

After that
I learned to cry quietly.
I learned how to wait.
I learned how to love someone
who kept choosing a door
over me.

⸻

MOTHER

Why are you always there?
Standing. Waiting.
Like I asked for that.

Do you know what you ruined?
The marriages.
The men.
The life I could have had
if I hadn’t been tied to you.

They didn’t leave because of me.
They left because of this—
your crying,
your eyes following me,
your need hanging in the air
like something rotten.

And the drinking—
don’t play innocent.
You think I’d need it
if I weren’t trapped like this?
Anyone would drink
with a child who never stops
wanting.

You drained me.
You took whatever patience I had
and asked for more.
Love became noise.
Motherhood became a cage.

When you poured the bottles out,
you proved it.
Always interfering.
Always making things worse.
You deserved every word I threw at you.

I lock the door
because I need one place
you can’t reach me.

Stop crying.
Stop standing there
like I owe you warmth.
I fed you.
I housed you.
That’s enough.

If I regret anything,
it’s this—
that I didn’t choose a life
without you in it.

Go away.
Let me be.