I remember
eight years old and standing outside
the white bathroom door.
The cross-stitch with the bad joke
hanging quietly.
Your Alice-in-Wonderland tears
escaping through the thin gap
at the bottom, a salty pool.
My small sandaled feet,
wet and frightened.

Thirteen
and your bedroom door
staring at me impassively.
You screaming,
emptying your lungs into the room.
I felt that it might burst with the sound.
Instead it seeped out
from underneath the door,
making a dark halo on the carpet.

No matter how far I walk
my feet still feel damp.