The Broken Glass on My Stairs
Drunk teens broke my sole remaining window last night. I can’t fight anymore, so I hid in the crawl space that I carved out above the I-beams on the second floor and didn’t come out until they staggered home, leaving behind their vulgar mess and dead brain cells. I once stood where they stood, lit fires, salvaged pipe and sheet metal trophies, broke windows with stones and bits of cement.
They are wise to mask their angst with bravado, to seek solace in the camaraderie of furtive sips of under-aged beer; what happens to them next is so much worse than anything they might imagine.
As I clear away the broken glass on my stairs, the wind picks up and cuts my ankles, envelops my neck, whips my back. It makes me feel alive. And it keeps me humble.
This is a response to the Imagà Imaginings prompt by Ashwini Dodani.
