There’s no place like home
Who lives in a house like this? As you walk in, the pine air freshness greets you and you cannot help but smile. Pristine. Pale pink walls in the hall with a hi-gloss stair rail freshly polished. Fresh flowers on a table by the phone. The kitchen has everything is in its place: spice jars lined up in alphabetical order; windowsill over the sink vibrant with healthy hosue plants and cacti; the sitting room has a deep pile, pale grey carpet with contrasting teal curtains and cushions on a silver three-piece. Beautiful.
Upstairs, the impressive level of perfection continues with the master bedroom in pastel shades.
In the second bedroom, there is no toy out of place. It looks like a showhome. But wait...huddled in the corner of the bedroom are two figures, one adult, one child. They are shaking and as I approach, they both start to scream: 'Leave us alone! Don't come any closer! Please don't tell him we're here!'
'Don't worry! I'm here to help you. You're safe now.'
'It was an accident! Please don't tell him,' the woman cries.
On the floor near them, I see a mug tipped over and its contents, hot chocolate perhaps, spilt over the carpet and splashed on the wall.
'It was an accident,' the little boy pleads.
I’m broken
he broke me.
not just my heart
he broke my trust
he broke my pride
he broke my confidence
all that I slowly, but steadily built up for years
just for him to crush it all in one single night
maybe being broken is not the end
maybe being broken asks for repair
maybe it asks for new beginnings
and maybe time will fill all my cracks and holes and being broken is something that I once was but no longer am.
