Years of healing has led to valuable insight about growth. Things I’ve been through I wish I could help other people through.

Liquid streams of blurry salt

Are coating every single syllable

Salt shakers emptying on tables

After everyone has long left

Where ants make hills that glisten

From leftover vowel’s discarded

They are the discarded phrases

That refuse to be forgotten

It’s the blood caked cement that stays

The acid etched paragraphs

That stain the welcome mat

And never quite come clean

The porch you wished wouldn’t speak

The door that yawns wide enough

To lick salt off the clouds

Even the best foundations

Can hold too much weight