Falling Through the Cracks
Walls yellowed by nicotine and time, a window swollen shut with rain,
Every floorboard a diary, every closet an alibi for pain.
Light struggles through grime, carving dust on father’s fists,
The air always stinks of something burning–anger, supper, bridges, wrists.
Childhood wasn’t pictures but snapshots gone missing,
Memories locked in the ache of a jaw, the shuffle of shoes, the whimper of wishing.
My father’s voice was thunder–constant, blunt, unpredictable as a migraine,
He could build a fence or break a face, could work till midnight and still complain
About the world that wronged him, about the sons who never measured up,
About the god that watched and did nothing–about the silence that never was enough.
Mother was a ghost in daylight, her kindness boiled down to the scrape of a spoon,
She floated through rooms with shoulders up, lips pressed thin as the moon,
Damp hair and nervous glances, always folding something–towels, apologies,
Hiding her shame and mine in drawers, waiting for the hour to pass quietly, please.
We never had a home, just an address–one more box in the row of boxes,
No warmth but what we stole from one another,
No love but the aftertaste, a sour thing to swallow in the dark.
The house itself tried to warn us: watermarks blooming across the ceiling like bruises,
Drafts that made winter into a season that never left,
Doors swollen with secrets, locks that never kept anything safe,
Carpets worn raw in the places where we always walked in circles–
Avoiding each other, orbiting around violence, hoping for a meteor, praying for escape.
Every meal was a negotiation, every word a landmine.
I learned young to weigh the air, to recognize the change in pressure
Before a storm of fists or words would land–
How to count to ten and breathe, how to go somewhere else in my mind,
How to disappear before the damage began.
Love was currency we never spent, a luxury, a dangerous gamble–
If I let myself hope for it, I paid in bruises and shame,
So I kept a ledger instead, tally marks hidden on the inside of my arms,
Counting every day I didn’t cry, every scar that faded, every part of myself
I managed to keep out of sight.
School was a reprieve, a fiction, a place where rules made sense,
Where I could pretend I was like everyone else,
But even there, I hid the truth under sarcasm and sweat,
Lied about the marks, lied about the nightmares,
Lied about wanting to live.
Friends were as dangerous as fathers–if they got too close,
They’d see the cracks and want to fix them,
But I knew better: fixing is for people who believe things can get better,
And by then, I had learned to expect nothing but what I got.
I fell through the cracks of time–every year another splinter,
Each birthday just another reason to dread,
Because hope is a dirty trick when you’ve been taught
That nothing good is coming, that love is a word they use in church
But not in houses like ours.
I ran from light–scared of what it might show,
Scared that someone would see the real me,
Scared of what I’d see if I ever looked in the mirror too long.
The only comfort was numbness: a hollow I dug inside,
A room where no one could touch me,
Where I could sleep through the shouting, the fists, the long nights.
Bruises heal, but nobody warns you about the memories–
How pain becomes routine, how survival is a poison you drink in sips.
I learned to keep my voice soft, to apologize for existing,
To flinch when anyone lifted a hand, even in kindness,
To freeze when a lover said, “I love you,”
Because love is a hammer,
And I am glass.
The years moved like syrup, sticky and slow,
I grew taller, leaner, meaner,
I learned how to leave a room without being noticed,
How to vanish in a crowd,
How to keep my secrets and my shame tucked tight behind a grin.
But the cracks didn’t leave when I did–
They followed me into every friendship,
Every touch, every bed,
Every chance at happiness I tried to chase but never caught.
My father’s rage became my own, a fire I kept hidden but felt
Boiling in my stomach, waiting for a reason to explode.
There were nights I almost gave in,
Nights I stood on bridges or in bathrooms with the door locked,
Trying to decide if pain was better than nothing,
If maybe I’d missed something vital,
If maybe I was broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed.
But still, I survived–barely, battered, older than my years,
Haunted by the sound of my own heartbeat,
By the echo of my father’s voice in my chest,
By the memory of hiding in closets or under beds,
Telling myself stories, promising I’d escape someday.
Now I am grown, but the child is always close–
He tugs at my sleeve when I’m happy,
He whispers in my ear when someone gets too close,
He keeps me company when the world feels sharp,
When I see my own eyes in the mirror and remember
How it feels to fall through cracks nobody else will ever see.
I look for peace, but peace is not a gift,
It’s a project, a wound that never closes,
I hold hands with the child I was–
His palms are cold, but he trusts me now,
He knows I will not leave him behind,
He knows I understand why he ran,
He knows I forgive him for surviving
In whatever way he could.
Falling through the cracks of time,
A childhood lost, a silent crime.
We ran from love, we ran from light,
Falling through the endless night.
Still running, still haunted,
Still holding on.