we hear the rattle of the drawer in the kitchen, that exact drawer
the drawer that belongs to the butchers block which sit at the window
with that dark, wooden knob
it contains the thing we most fear
it contains the serving spoons or mixing spoons
and you ask children, why are you afraid?
but you don't see the wooden spoon that paint red marks across our rears
and we know we deserve it
we know we've done wrong
but still firmly believe that we shouldn't get smacked
mother has no right
so we hide in the cupboard with the wooden door that looks like blinds
we hide but mother can still see us
we hide because we fear being hurt but we know we deserve it
and the drawer rattles again
and we realize that mother is just cooking dinner
so we venture out of our hiding place
and await our next deserved beating.
YOU ARE READING
{2} never alone.
Poetry"...we're hopelessly complicated and beautifully entwined, maybe we're ignorantly emancipated and selfishly try to prove it wrong..." lowercase intended.
