Doors Unlocked
Four walls. Three windows. Two rooms. One door. I walk past this house everyday. It's always dim, always empty, always cold. You would think no one ever lived there at all. This building is something I would never want now, but something I used to love. I used to laugh, sing, and dance in this house. I hugged, loved, and watched my favorite person in the world die in this house.
Before Mary died, she had asked that I keep it so her spirit could live on. She had saved up enough to pay the mortgage off on this house, and 100 others, but without her it was only a house where as Mary was my home. Everything you could ever need, she was. She was my light, my music, my walls, my windows. She opened every door I had closed, and made every part of me feel safe and secured. Because of her, I left the doors unlocked.
I sold the house immediately after she died. I could still smell her in every room, and I could still taste her with every breath, and I needed to get away from that reminder. I could have anything I want in life with the money she left me, but all I want is her. Her spirit lives through me, not the house. I wander the streets at night, protected by her presence. I feel as if finding security in any place that's not with her is a betrayal, so I promised to never live in a house again.
One day as I walk past the house and I noticed a fresh coat of paint, new locks, and new blinds. I can no longer peer into the empty house that was once full of smiles and memories of Mary. This hurts to see, but a young couple leave the house, door unlocked, and I can tell it is now a home again. I know Mary would be happy at this sight…Four walls. Three rooms. Two hearts. One door.
Summer.
Lee hated it.
Everything's all sticky and sweaty, and pools, the only thing to cool you down, is a sure way of getting coronavirus. Ah, Covid-19, another thing she hated. It's not like she had many, (or any), friends she missed or disliked masks with a flaming passion, or even that lots of people were dying. She hated that school was canceled.
Academics were about the only field she thrived in (She tried interning at an animal shelter for a week and got fired for turning dead animals into science experiments) and the fact that the only fun thing was over. That was another reason why she hated summer.
"Lee, can you pass the salt?" Hannah asked, with a kind smile on her face, just like all the other phony foster parents she previously had.
"Can't you just grab it yourself; Last time I checked you had arms," Lee said, nibbling on her purposely burnt toast.
Hannah and her husband, Roy exchanged glances. They apparently didn't know what they were getting into.
"So, um, Lee, what stuff do you like to do, for- uh, fun?" Roy asked.
"Writing formal essays, biology, neuroscience, conducting tests on unsuspecting pigeons, you know, the norm."
Hannah half-choked on her eggs during the pigeon part and tried to cover it up by coughing.
"I'm going to go on a walk around the neighborhood, I'll be back in a half-hour," Lee said, standing up.
"O-okay, have fun," Hannah said as Lee slammed the front door closed.
"Time to get out of here," she said, smiling.
Her cheap bus ticket was scheduled for 9:15, and it was only a few blocks away. She had bought it using a stolen credit card from a stranger's purse she took a few days ago. Her plan wasn't going to fail this time.
Lee hoisted herself up to her new bedroom window, grabbed her worn backpack, and scaled back down the building. She sprinted away down the street, raindrops starting to fall. She had always loved rain; It always helped her think straight, like wiping all the grime off a dirty window.
After a minute or two, she arrived at the bus stop, right on time. A few other people were waiting too, a few men in suits, a grandma, a mom and her son, and an angsty looking teenage girl, wearing a heavy load of black eyeshadow.
That was when it happened.
When an unsuspecting 15-year-old girl in jeans and a tee, wearing a backpack full of stolen lab equipment and a credit card, disappeared.
dis·ap·pear/ˌdisəˈpir/ - verb - past tense: disappeared; past participle: disappeared
cease to be visible."he disappeared into the trees"
Lee did not "disappear" like the example from the English dictionary shows. She disappeared as in being visible one second, and completely and utterly in-visible during the next, not behind some trees, or in a bus.
Now, I'm not one to believe in magic, but in my experiences, people just don't tend to disappear.
From my experiences, I've also learned that just because something can't be seen, doesn't mean it's not there.
divided
i'm split
between
my past
and present
self.
past me.
she's crippled
by anxiety,
dragged down
by her
emetophobia.
even the tiniest
jolt in
her stomach
triggers
a
domino
effect.
she's scared
to go in
public.
she's sent
home from school
early,
in tears.
but,
when she finds
calm in the
storm,
she's
authentic,
she's true to
herself.
she does what
she wants
and doesn't
bother with
putting
up
a
front.
present me.
the threapy
worked.
yet
something
feels off,
feels fake.
no anxiety,
and i feel
numb.
my world
has expanded,
it's overwhelming.
i'm a pretender
now,
it makes things
easier.
i've got
everything i've
ever wanted
but is that
what i really
wanted at all?
they're the same person, yet so different.
who do i choose?
‘courageous’
self-obsessed.
your toes
brush the
line,
dip into
the
icy waters.
there's that
thrill.
doing
something
stupid,
something
dangerous,
and living.
who cares
about
the cost
when the pay
is so
high.
you're an idol.
their praise,
those worshipping
looks
in their
glazed eyes,
they fuel
your very
soul.
you know
it's detrimental.
that one
day you
will go
too far.
but you're
hooked.
you're addicted
to a close
shave,
to staring a monster
right
in
the
face.
this
false bravery
is what
keeps you
going.
it dictates
your life.
without it
you
are
nothing.
The “man” Who Called Himself “Dad”
You kicked her belly
repeatedly
after you knocked
her out.
Cramming a
wooden broom handle
in her vagina,
“IS THIS HELL?”
wanting to kill me
screaming and shouting
trying to FORCE
me out.
But I held on
to the beat
of my own
heart.
You gave me the
name
“Carla” Strong Woman,
that I AM!!!
Hear me Roar
I am Wise
No need to shout.
Peace
CJ Electra
#poetry
WRITER
WRITER
Nutrition Facts
Serving Size: 1 Storyteller
Amount Per Serving
% Daily Value*
Tears of Readers 230%
Insanity 120%
Imagination 290%
Ideas 540%
Actually writing 0.01%
Dont worry about my browser history I’m a writer 1000%
Time spent on Baby Name Websites <> 370%
Not Sure If Writer’s Block Or Just Lazy
<> 220%
*Percent Daily Values may vary depending on internet access and amount of sleep.
https://i.pinimg.com/originals/1b/78/53/1b78539265394f2928d37f759d56e877.png
#WRITER
29/07\2020 [Wednesday].
