The Struggles Behind Doors

There appears to have been a struggle. Something violent. Something had finally snapped. Something terrible. This struggle capitalized on knowing one's weaknesses, soft spots, and vulnerabilities.

Some fights are over material things. Or a lover. Or jealousy. Not this one. This wasn't what came by surveying the aftermath of blood, sinews, and even the gray matter that had stood in somebody's way. An obstacle someone couldn't abide.

Upon entering, the first thing I noticed was how hurt I was to see what I saw, cutting deeply into my sensibilities. As if I'd been involved. I felt shame that must've emerged from the ugly scene that had only recently ended, smoldering in disgust and disappointment.

How could such a disagreement come to such carnage? There were no winners here, certainly.

But this wasn't the first time I'd opened a door to witness a body count. Truthfully, you only need one finger to count to one. The struggles I have with myself leave me bleeding grace and atonement.

It takes two to fight, it's been said. Now I wonder. That's never been true for someone like me. I open the doors of rooms to clean up what's left of the struggles within.