Body-Shaped Holes

The walls carried our secrets,
body-shaped holes where my father threw me.
I can still see the dents,
feel the way my head hit the plaster–
a perfect outline of pain.

I never cried out loud.
It wasn’t safe to let the tears fall.

I learned to measure silence,
to count the seconds between rage and quiet,
hoping the storm would pass.
But it never did, not really.
The silence after was worse–
a waiting game of bruises.

The kitchen ceiling collapsed,
like the weight of our lives crashing down.
Garbage bags piled high,
feces on the floor,
everything smelled like decay.
I’d steal bread, just to taste something that wasn’t bitter.

My sisters were too young to know,
but I felt the burden–
the black sheep of a family that was already lost.
Relatives turned away.
They didn’t want our mess, our broken home.

Now I stand in front of those walls,
invisible, but still there–
the ghosts of my childhood,
carved in drywall,
etched in bruises.
I don’t know how to heal what’s left.