Number 7 Albert Terrace; The Door Stoop.

Aunt Mary cooks a graceful Sunday Lamb Roast,

Chunky pieces of moist roast innocence that

Were worth running to her front door for.

One Sunday each month,

I’d swing the gate wide open upon arrival and hear

the rust mundanely whistle,

As my feet slapped happily on the damp concrete path.

Slapping and hopping over each uneven, tiny crack.

Too scared to look left and too worried to look right.

Focusing solely on the Great beyond the hard Mahogany door.

I always stood on the door stoop alone momentarily,

While my family toddled behind me.

The balls of my small feet balanced within the dingy gap between,

the doormat and protruding door frame.

Unlike many doors I had learnt about this door didn’t have a handle,

Nothing to easily maneuver and enter seamlessly, quietly and effortlessly.

Challenges people didn’t and wouldn’t tell you about.

Nothing to even grab, twist and stumble into.

Only a large golden knob,

Few had the ability to reach and enter.

I tried every time to jump and twist,

to twist and jump,

to run and jump and twist and turn

Every variable within my repertoire,

Only those,

with a key,

who knew those inside,

were allowed to enter.

That never stopped me though,

I’d scream,

I’d sing,

Laugh, cry, bark back at the dog,

Jump, jive and ring the bell again and again.

Until the ringing was also inside my head, blinding me.

I’d reach my hands into the letter box

Slimy, pale, wet digits peeling away the black bristles,

pushing and prodding the intrusive thoughts,

Word and scolds out of the way to enter blissfully into her world.

The world I was locked out from.

I wouldn’t let myself be left out in the rain

I wouldn’t and will never stay out on the stoop and wait patiently to be let inside.

I will not wait patiently for your answer to my predicament.

I will use my voice, I will use it so loudly to be let in, I will work and push past this,

I have to it’s a matter of survival.

What is mine and what I love is worth breaking down any door for

I’ll not wait for others to do me a favor

And allow them let me inside to do what they wish.

I will enter on my own accord,

I will burn the house down while I do.

You will never see me standing on a door stoop.

Not in a purgatory of other’s creation.

I’ll let my fucking self in.

Hello, my name is Emma and I like drawing, laughing and telling stories.

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