#I'm filling out some other areas in my blog and working on the poetry section

[pernesophe]

“You’re so Mature.”

Yes, well, have you ever walked on broken glass? Not like big shards, but the little ones - the ones that are almost finely ground? I have, and it may just be because my feet are calloused (or maybe it's just thick skin) But in my experience you can walk across it without getting cut.

You have to be so, so careful with every step you take - thinking in depth about where you place your foot and how much weight to apply. But when you do it right you can maneuver across an entire room, sometimes even an entire house, without breaking the skin. The shards simply press into you, sticking between the grooves in the soles of your feet.

That’s how my home life was for 16 years or more. 

Every day. Every hour. Every breath. Every thought.

I agonized over everything that could give way to a misstep. But you wanna know the fucked up part? Just like when you step on glass, and it’s sharp and painful, and so, so confusing… You never really know how you did it.

You know you stepped on it. You know it was on the floor. You know your feet were bare.

And yet, how is it that you stepped wrong this time? How did you not see it? How did it get there in the first place?

My home was like that too.

When I’d traverse the house made of broken glass so, so carefully. Eyes like a hawk. Silent as a mouse.

Somehow I’d still misstep,  And I never really understood how…

And do you wanna know the worst part yet? When the house made of glass breaks your skin, you aren’t allowed to say “ouch”. Or cry, or bring attention to the blood on the floor, and God forbid you fall. Because the only thing there to catch you is more glass.

More cuts. More pain. More blood.

But don’t ever talk about it.

Clean it up. Wash the floors. Disinfect the rags.

Bandage yourself.

But don’t let the glass know it hurt you. For such an inanimate object it seems to enjoy that. Once transparent and unassuming, now shiny and red with your blood.

Remember that. Remember the blood. Remember the pain.  It’s the only way to avoid falling, yet again. “You’re so mature,” because I have to be.

Could you imagine what this glass could do to a child?

*This is my poem please do not repost / crosspost or edit*