Scarred Hands | Poetry collection | Versification

2 | closed door

| Descriptive writing |

February 5th, 2023.
2:37 pm.

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Outside my window, the world awaits.
I like to think I can step outside; put my feet out of the door; first left, then right.
Just like that, be free, be somebody;
maybe even be me.

It is closed right now, a horrendous sight
that mocks me. I long to push it open, step outside this place I once called a home.

But now it is a cell, holding me captive,
with people that don't have ten words
to say to me, where i feel only sorrow,
pain, and little happiness.

What would I miss? Very little.
Perhaps the soft seat in papa's office that I used to sit on when I was little, and perhaps the scent mama used to wear once upon a time; maybe that kettle that she used to pour tea out of, and those tiny china tea cups that now sit in the cupboard, gathering dust, no longer loved.

I might miss the rug in the hallway, and the spot where I used to put my shoes, even though they were unused. I might miss the marble floor, it's cold and solidness;
I know, I am particular, perhaps weird.

Mama used to say the world outside won't understand me, her words sit in my heart still, they make it throb with fear, but also with longing.

How cruel to love and keep a sparrow when it longs to be free, stuck in a cage by the window, able to look at the blue sky but unable to fly. Is it love to keep it, when every day it's little heart hurts?  When it wakes up in a cage, eats, drinks, wishes and goes back to sleep?

To think, every day is like that, full of wishing, full of hurt, held captive and being told it's because you're loved.

I am loved, she used to say. But now, she is no longer speaking, not longer pouring tea into tea cups and warming me up by the fireplace,
no longer smiling that warm smile that made staying home seem okay.

Am I still loved? Should be;
that front door is still closed, mocking me.

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