Breaking Whitewashed Walls

They say I didn't talk till I turned four. But I remember every word from

the days before. Caterpillar sprinklers, brothers toys on the floor. A little voice

just quiet 'cause the house felt sore. Mama slept through weekends,

curtains always closed. I learned young what a wounded spirit shows. Took pictures for

the world just to strike a pose. But we both knew that ain't

how our story goes. Yeah, families look perfect when the camera

shines. But the truth don't lie between the lines. I grew up

in a house of whitewashed walls. Pretty on the outside, hollow in the