The Cupboard Door

Splinters— Page 1

I found an old diary today
cracked spine, pages stuck together with time.

I almost didn’t open it.
I knew what was waiting.

But I did.
And there I was—thirteen again.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor,
writing down the things I couldn’t say out loud.

---

June 9, 1991

My school counselor tells me
I should write down the things that happened to me.

He said it might help.
That maybe I’ll understand it better
if it’s on the page
instead of just inside me.

I didn’t know where to start.
But then today, at school,
I saw the nurse’s cupboard.
Brown wood. Gold handle.
My hand started to ache just looking at it.

So I guess I’ll start there.

I was seven or eight the first time…

I’m only asking about Grandma.
Just one question.
“Why can’t we go see her?”
Her face changes before I even finish.

She said, “Shut your mouth and keep it shut .”
My mother always says that
when her hands get ahead of her temper.
Then the cupboard door—
that piercing sound
and my hand,
caught underneath.

I scream.
Drop to my knees.
Sit there on the cold kitchen tiles,
cradling my hand,
while she walks away.

I don’t think she means to.
But maybe she does.
It’s hard to tell with her.
She makes breakfast like she loves me.
Pours the maple syrup in a heart shape.
Call me Honey Girl.
As if it didn’t happen.

My fingers still sore and swollen.
I say thank you.

Sometimes I wonder
if this is what love feels like;
heat that burns,
rooms that freeze,
and the instinct
to never ask too much.

I think maybe
this is the kind of pain
you grow around,
like ivy
on a crumbling wall.

— A.

---

Afterword • June 20,2025

I vaguely remember writing this...

A girl with no voice
scribbling her truth in a notebook
because no one was listening.

When I read these old entries,
I want to reach back
and hold her trembling hand.
Tell her she didn’t deserve it.
Tell her it’s okay to be angry.
To name it what it was.

Not just a bad day.
Not just “she didn’t mean it.”
It was violence.
And it left marks, long after the bruises faded.

“This is how we start to heal sweet girl, by writing it down,
even when it hurts.”

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This is part of “Sea Salt & Silence,” a true-to-memory Substack series told through verse, memory, and reflection. I’ll be sharing each diary entry one page at a time. Subscribe to walk with me.

More soon.

Debra 💕