Midnight Poetry
Welcome to the Loud House; won't you come on in? I know it seems chaotic and overwhelming, but I promise it's the good kind; come, experience the feeling?
The first thing you might see is a lot of piles and mess, but in reality it looks lived in and real; if I confess, the closer you look, the more it oppresses, its foot on your neck and you grow breathless.
I know it seems like a lot at first, and that's fair, but the mess you are used to was never yours to bear; to clean or to care for a household was not your responsibility, so close your eyes and take a breath and remember, you're in the Loud House; here you have autonomy.
The first thing you hear are yells and shouts, but hold your ground, baby and breathe it out. These shouts are not like the ones you've heard before. These are shouts of excitement and laughter and fun; you're safe, even though your heart races and you want to run.
Those fights were never yours to fix or referee. You were a child, not a pawn or the meat in between, so close your eyes and repeat after me: you are now FREE. Open your eyes and take in the joy; remember you're in the Loud House, so sit back and enjoy.
The first thing you smell is the stench of wine and sweat; the smell should warn all to pray to hide away, but this is your house as you shake and fret, you make yourself small and scurry away, because by now you know better than to get in the way, but if only I could make them see it my way.
Nope, that scent may trigger your memory, the red flags waving, the sirens blaring, but look around, little one, take in your bearings. No minimising yourself in here; be present and name what you see out loud, because in the Loud House all noise is allowed.
The first thing you taste is salty bitterness; you're accustomed to the taste of your own tears, snot and even blood; it pairs well with your despair and helplessness. If only you did as you were told and ate your food, then they wouldn't have done this to you.
It is not your fault; you couldn't communicate; silence was not your downfall at eight, but it won't bode you now, so speak your truth and watch and wait. Your voice matters and deserves to be heard, so here's a brush and take some paint, leave your mark, and make it bright and bold as well, in the Loud House colour bodes well.
The first thing you feel is the sting and the shock; you act on instinct to cower and cover, you hold your breath, you don't want to cry, you wait it out, until they eventually tire. Every strike is followed by a slit, not a physical one, an emotional one left behind by every degrading word that lacerates after each hit.
Boy, they really did a number on you, huh? It is never ok to cause harm, no matter who they are. I'm sorry that happened to you; it's evident that you were failed by the adults in your life, but we're here now, and our touches are a reminder of love, not fear. You're at home in the Loud House, my dear.
So when the pressure builds, when the heat becomes unbearable, when the chemicals collide inside, when the weight of a child rests on your chest, it might feel impossible to breathe, to move, to exist; just remember
We are in the Loud House, and here we are safe, here we are loved, here we are allowed.
