i am. i am. i am. Erin McGrath Rieke i am. i am. i am. Erin McGrath Rieke

Dark Pause

So yes, the room is dark. And I don’t like the dark. It makes everything worse. It makes my thoughts louder. My chest tighter. I don’t trust the dark. It’s where the sad things grow. And I guess that’s what this is. Sadness. Or sickness. Or both. I don’t know anymore.

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i am. i am. i am. Erin McGrath Rieke i am. i am. i am. Erin McGrath Rieke

The Mother

She cleaned compulsively, paced, whispered, and corrected details no one else noticed. Floors were rewetted and polished. Objects aligned, realigned. Her mind circled endlessly, inventing betrayals, neglect, and slights. The rituals never calmed her. They only prolonged the sense that something remained unfinished.

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i am. i am. i am. Erin McGrath Rieke i am. i am. i am. Erin McGrath Rieke

This Old House

The house I lived in was not made of wood or stone. It was built from expectation and inheritance, from silence arranged as order, from rituals passed down like furniture no one ever questioned.

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