12-15-2025, 04:14 PM
Decided on a follow up version. I’m not so sure about this but maybe it is a bit better that what I have posted before.
Two Voices at the Door
⸻
CHILD
I sit on the floor outside your room,
knees pulled in,
cheek against the door.
The house smells like glass and sour sweetness.
I can hear the bottle when you lift it.
That sound tells me
which you came home as.
I whisper your name.
Then louder.
Then I knock—
soft at first,
like asking permission to exist.
Please.
I’ll be quiet.
I’ll be good.
I won’t need anything.
Sometimes I press my ear to the wood,
just to hear you breathe.
Even anger sounds better
than nothing at all.
When you don’t answer,
I cry into my sleeve
so you won’t hear how much.
I tell myself
you’re just tired,
that love is resting
behind the lock.
Once, I took the bottles
and poured them down the sink.
The smell burned my nose.
I thought maybe
if the noise stopped
you would come back to me.
You came out screaming.
The walls shook.
Your face looked wrong—
sharp, unfamiliar.
I stood still.
Heart racing.
Terrified.
Relieved.
At least you were looking at me.
After that
I learned to cry quietly.
I learned how to wait.
I learned how to love someone
who kept choosing a door
over me.
⸻
MOTHER
Why are you always there?
Standing. Waiting.
Like I asked for that.
Do you know what you ruined?
The marriages.
The men.
The life I could have had
if I hadn’t been tied to you.
They didn’t leave because of me.
They left because of this—
your crying,
your eyes following me,
your need hanging in the air
like something rotten.
And the drinking—
don’t play innocent.
You think I’d need it
if I weren’t trapped like this?
Anyone would drink
with a child who never stops
wanting.
You drained me.
You took whatever patience I had
and asked for more.
Love became noise.
Motherhood became a cage.
When you poured the bottles out,
you proved it.
Always interfering.
Always making things worse.
You deserved every word I threw at you.
I lock the door
because I need one place
you can’t reach me.
Stop crying.
Stop standing there
like I owe you warmth.
I fed you.
I housed you.
That’s enough.
If I regret anything,
it’s this—
that I didn’t choose a life
without you in it.
Go away.
Let me be.
Two Voices at the Door
⸻
CHILD
I sit on the floor outside your room,
knees pulled in,
cheek against the door.
The house smells like glass and sour sweetness.
I can hear the bottle when you lift it.
That sound tells me
which you came home as.
I whisper your name.
Then louder.
Then I knock—
soft at first,
like asking permission to exist.
Please.
I’ll be quiet.
I’ll be good.
I won’t need anything.
Sometimes I press my ear to the wood,
just to hear you breathe.
Even anger sounds better
than nothing at all.
When you don’t answer,
I cry into my sleeve
so you won’t hear how much.
I tell myself
you’re just tired,
that love is resting
behind the lock.
Once, I took the bottles
and poured them down the sink.
The smell burned my nose.
I thought maybe
if the noise stopped
you would come back to me.
You came out screaming.
The walls shook.
Your face looked wrong—
sharp, unfamiliar.
I stood still.
Heart racing.
Terrified.
Relieved.
At least you were looking at me.
After that
I learned to cry quietly.
I learned how to wait.
I learned how to love someone
who kept choosing a door
over me.
⸻
MOTHER
Why are you always there?
Standing. Waiting.
Like I asked for that.
Do you know what you ruined?
The marriages.
The men.
The life I could have had
if I hadn’t been tied to you.
They didn’t leave because of me.
They left because of this—
your crying,
your eyes following me,
your need hanging in the air
like something rotten.
And the drinking—
don’t play innocent.
You think I’d need it
if I weren’t trapped like this?
Anyone would drink
with a child who never stops
wanting.
You drained me.
You took whatever patience I had
and asked for more.
Love became noise.
Motherhood became a cage.
When you poured the bottles out,
you proved it.
Always interfering.
Always making things worse.
You deserved every word I threw at you.
I lock the door
because I need one place
you can’t reach me.
Stop crying.
Stop standing there
like I owe you warmth.
I fed you.
I housed you.
That’s enough.
If I regret anything,
it’s this—
that I didn’t choose a life
without you in it.
Go away.
Let me be.