it's the nest of soft blankets;
a darkened room and a locked door.
it's the stacks of empty green and brown bottles,
the cracks in the wood panelling around the doors;
the incoherent slurs.
it's the patched up holes;
the startle at every unexpected sound;
the white of fingers as they tightly clutch doorknobs.
it's pages of shaky writing in black ink;
incomplete sentences and watermarks;
teeth biting down on a tongue that doesn't dare speak.
it's the razor-sharp words;
the sting of warm water;
the long sleeves.
it's the pulling of the self apart;
shredding, unravelling, despising.
weaving back together.
Schrödinger's ball of yarn.