remnants

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. 

forgiving. 

weaving back together.

Schrödinger's ball of yarn.