a door locked and unlocked and locked again;
the feeling of picking concrete out of your knees;
your father's footsteps outside of your bedroom door at night,
the loudest sound you've ever heard.

you hold a tadpole in your fist and you love it, for a moment, before it slips out from between your small fingers and back into the water, disappears into the silt.

a door locked and unlocked and locked again;
the feeling of yanking a nail out of the sole of your foot.
your mother's voice cracking into a million little tears as she screams and screams and screams and you don't know what you did wrong but you know you did wrong.

you tie a balloon to your wrist so it cannot float away, but you cut it off to watch it go, and you cry when it is gone.

a door locked and unlocked and locked again;
the feeling of wind rushing past you as you sprint barefoot through the woods;
your father's footsteps outside your bedroom door, still, after all this time, as recognizable to you as your own name, heavy and hurried.

you are only a child and you wear a necklace of thorns, a crown of beer bottle caps, bags under your eyes as dark as sin. you feel heavy.

a door locked and unlocked and locked again.
you feel heavy.