October 6, 2018

For months, the steps to our front door have been crumbling, the mortar sending plumes of dust into the dark crawlspace underneath. I came home from traveling to find a deepened dip, as if landing had become supplicant: Fix me. When I carry heavy bags, I step quickly, afraid of collapse.

I spent years constructing watertight staircases over my own dark spaces. But today, I am afraid to open the front door of my heart and step onto the landing. My mortar is pulverized, and my mouth is full of screams ready to unleash.

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