Youngest, Stuck Inside

The phone call ended with a slam—

my bedroom door a cracked frame

where I used to brace my hand

against noise I couldn’t hold.

Older voices snapped, clipped,

older fists made of words I tried to dodge.

I’m the youngest, caught under the thunder,

stuck in the small space between storms.

The hallway smelled like burnt toast

and spilled anger,

where silence was just another way

to get pushed around.

I press my palm to the doorframe’s splinters,

remember the echo, sharp and close,

how it never quite stopped

and neither did I.