what gave it away


it's the nest of soft blankets;
a darkened room and a locked door.


it's the stacks of empty green and brown bottles,
the cracks in the wood paneling around the doors;
the incoherent slurs.


it's the patched up holes in the doors;
the startle at every unexpected sound;
the white of fingers as they tightly clutch doorknobs.


it's pages of shaky writing in black ink;
incomplete sentences and watermarks;
teeth biting down on a tongue that doesn't dare speak.


it's the razor-sharp words and the razors;
the sting of warm water;
the long sleeves.


it's the pulling of the self apart;
shredding, unraveling, despising.


weaving back together.


Schrödinger's ball of yarn.

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