Hoarder’s Child (Rewrite)


Wall and floor consumed in madness.

Window breaks daylight over steep heaps of God knows what.  

Child has just enough room to breathe.

Breathe child, for you can do little else.

A knock on the door strikes terror.

Climb and see. 


Potluck ladies balance casserole dishes. 

They angle for a peek inside. 

Door slightly ajar, child replies.

No, we are not moving.

No, you cannot come in.

Child knows hospitality does not live there. 

There is barely enough room for child.

What could potluck ladies bring to the mix, hmmm?

It takes practice to wear the blanket of shame.

It is heavy. 

13 thoughts on “Hoarder’s Child (Rewrite)

    1. Sue…did not mean to alarm. This is a rewrite of one of my earliest posts. I ran across the photo but did not get it credited in my post. I grew up in a hoarder home so yes, this is my perspective. I just wanted to take another stab at writing on this very personal subject. Writing is cathartic, right? πŸ™‚ Thanks for the comment, Sue!

      Liked by 1 person

    1. Thx, Sue. I went to a local library open mic event last week. I didn’t read anything but felt inspired by listening to others. Always appreciate your encouragement, dear Sue.

      Liked by 1 person

  1. Heavy stuff. I wrote about growing up MbP once; it was a hard poem to write, and I had to hide it beneath a deceptive preamble, in case my mother actually read it (as though she were interested enough in me to read what I wrote!). Bravo! This was very evocative.


  2. New to your blog. I believe one of the biggest problems we suffer from in America is isolation, so it’s so good to see people sharing “skeletons” and lending support. May I just add that everything I’ve learned about having “conditions” (mine is leukemia) is that statistics are meant for research, not for individuals, so we mustn’t look for ourselves in them.


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