Because there was always never enough of anything, this house only knew how to speak one language. That language was anger. Anger from frustration. Anger from pain.

There was always enough anger to go around. More than enough anger. It was free and easy to give away. The house always had jars for storing anger and many times they were filled to the brim.

They started breaking things during arguments. Saying only the most hurtful things to one another. It was like a contest. The children were getting really good at it. Better than father and mother.

But the children are grown now. Sometimes it’s difficult; there are triggers everywhere. They feel unsafe, and untrusting. They are exhausted too. Because they’re now struggling to give love to others from a place that was never cultivated.

They are looking for in others, the love they did not get from home. And sometimes they stray towards people that carry the same bitter jars and they settle. It feels safer with broken people because that’s the language they grew to understand.

They are better now. I’m proud of them. A few times, they still find small jars in their pockets. And they have to remind themselves to throw them away.

if you know the House like me, don't worry, they'll be fine, overtime.


© inked!