Bruised

The creek of a floorboard echoing through the hall 

or the quiet squeal of a mouse in the corner of a room.

The log cabin hidden deep within the woods 

with a muddy doormat all have walked over.

A leather jacket hung on the coat rack with a button that went missing. 

The scent of cinnamon turns to char. A thrifted dress was left behind.

The log cabin wasn’t built to last long,

yet that hazelnut hair still stings like a thorn.

But as leaves fall to the autumn floor and the grandfather clock strikes again, 

that stinging feeling fades as a freshly stuffed teddy bear swallows me.

The rope that tied me up suddenly breaks and my body is bruised.

But bruises heal.