306/365 In the attic of my mother's heart

In the attic of my mother's heart there are cobwebs, and crowbars.
Old bibles and new religions.
There are dust patterns
describing the way to the comfiest room.
There are barb wires on the door.

Not to keep you out but to see how much you're willing to go through to get in.
There are broken promises and found hope.
New joys and illicit sorrows.

There are things that she leaves unseen in the hopes that I will not remember.
But I have implicit memories tattooed to my genomes.
Explicit memories of a life that came before.

Especially, the way the light pushed into her attic when he opened her door.
There is barb wire on the door-knob of my mother's attic coiled into thickets
because she knows what can be taken from you if you appear weak.
If you don't cut them a bit going in just to let them know you have strength.

Just to see what color they bleed
and compare it with your own.
To decide if they are human.
Even criminals are human.
Even mass murderers are human