The words evolve with me.
The yelling has stopped and I’m standing, shaking and alarmed at my fury over spaghetti droppings and messy four-year-old hands. There will come a time when I will swear I am nothing like the house that produced me. I will balk and roll my eyes at the very suggestion.
Yet, I am standing in an orange-colored room with hair and words flailing helplessly around frightened eyes and deep apologies.
Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t dare to dream outside the box I’ve put you in, dear. The world is a scary, sadistic space and you’ll thank me for showing you now, while you’re open to take it in.
Her words rattle through me like freight trains.
Don’t think. Breathe and be glad you may do so freely.
Eyes and hands are cleaned and put to bed. The walls are shaking. The room is melting away, and I lie in a tight ball on the floor wishing for the space I once had. Lines to the world beyond this are long and slow. I breathe in her tears on my shirt. Swallow hard and push past the desires. Breathe again.
Tomorrow will be different.