Duct Tape Dreams

Meant for protection — 
a mask to disappear,
to move unseen —
a slow dance in pain.

Survival learns fast.
Getting by?
Beats getting ahead.

Stand out?
Not a chance.
Attention was a luxury
I couldn’t afford.

At home:
Empty shelves.
Repo man’s knock.
Darkness, thick with shame.
And worry —
God, the taste of it.
Fear on my tongue,
truth too heavy to spit out.

So, I watched other families.
Slipped into kitchens not mine.
Studied their “normal.”
Pieced it together —
duct tape dreams,
whatever-it-takes grit.

I made it my job
to hold it all together.

Oh, foolish girl.
Barely holding herself
while trying to hold them.
Smoothing every crack.
Making chaos look calm.

Trauma doesn’t just happen.
It moves through you.
Buries itself
in the silent spaces
where you smile instead.

You hide so well,
you forget you’re hiding.
You lose you.

The mask becomes your face.

And when it fell —
so did the lies.

Shattered.
Crumbling.
A million little truths
hit the floor.

Broken.
Unfixable.

Cracks always show.
Edges always cut.

Left with the pieces,
the choice is mine:

Stumble forever —
bleeding —

or

Gather shards,
wrap ’em in duct tape dreams,
whatever-it-takes grit —

and build
a mosaic
that lets the light in.