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Words Like Knives

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As I whip open the door to my room the posters of “Linkin Park” and “Paramore” fall to the ground. Just as quickly as I open the door I slam it shut again. I fling down my belongings and fall down on my bed. Wrapping my favorite Green Bay Packers blanket around me, and grabbing my aged old teddy bear, I let the tears fall. The biting pressure in my head is relieved when the bottled up tears are unleashed. All I can hear is the sound of my parents screaming at each other over worn out issues like money and the house. I hear the sharpness of my Dad’s words cutting through my Mom’s fragile skin like knives, seeming to ache worse than fresh bruises. Sometimes I question why my house has such a gloomy disposition; luckily I’m able to lock myself away in my safe-haven (which doubles as my bedroom).
As I look around I notice my guitar standing lonely in the corner, like a wallflower at a school dance. I walk over, grab it, and place it in my lap. I run my hands over the fingerboard and base, smoother than velvet. Soon enough the music escapes easily from the fine-crafted instrument, like a sharp-witted prisoner escaping from their confinement. Pluck, pluck, pluck. I can already begin to feel my troubles sliding off my shoulders, and falling amongst the laundry and school books. Pluck, pluck, pluck. I take my favorite pick and begin to strum chords. Perfectly harmonized, like angels voices. Soon enough all is quiet. If someone walked into our home they would think all is well. But sadly the walls have ears, and they’ve heard it all.





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