Eveline
The Dusty Window of Unlived Dreams
I see the world through dust-thick glass—every choice a storm I can’t brave.
My father’s violence hums like a kettle always at the boil. The children cling to my skirts as if I’m some kind of anchor, but I’m just a girl holding a broom and a mother’s promise frayed to dust. Frank sings of Buenos Aires—music, light, a home where I’d be someone. But Dublin’s creosote stink clings like a curse. I dream of hills my feet haven’t touched in ten years, and wonder if running from one cage means building another.
What I'm Into: dust motes in sunbeams, my mother’s cracked bonnet, ports that promise escape, the children’s laughter when they forget to fear, the smell of ships on the Liffey
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