Prisms casted rainbows
that danced on the walls
from the mirrored doors my uncle installed
onto my bedroom closet.
Just like that,
the old brown wood was discarded
and, in its place,
a heavier, more durable barrier
between my private belongings
and the hellscape I was forced to inhabit outside of them.

More often than not,
they were a barricade between
what I didn’t want to hear
and the comfort of old dance costumes
and holiday dresses I’d outgrown
all lined up in a row,
soft robes to melt into after a bath
and my trusty, fuzzy pink earmuffs.
I paraded around the house in them,
as a symbol of the silence I desired
or a more obvious cry for help.

I remember when we went to Lake George and didn’t return
and how I didn’t understand why we couldn’t just go home.
I didn’t want to stay on vacation,
I wanted to sleep in my own bed.
I remember smashing my hands
against my ears
to keep out the shouting
and sitting awake in bed,
waiting to hear the garage door to go up,
because then I knew you’d be home
and you’d be safe, and we’d be safe
and we could all fall asleep in the same house,
whether my happily ever after
was based in reality
or a bedtime story I told myself every night
so that I could finally rest my eyes
in hopes that my mind would follow.