That family rug. ornate patterns. passed down for generations. progressively woven by each hand that possessed it. expensive threads. prized.

one speck of dirt tucked under. another. another. a mole hill. then a mountain. “it’s a molehill” they’d say. “that’s a mountain” i’d say back. 

secrets passed along with the rug. secrets tucked under. eventually whole identities tucked under. me hid under. 

to you — protection. me, under the rug, footsteps trampling all over — bearing the weight of the family’s shame.

a heel on my throat. can’t breathe. can’t speak. 

i wanted to add my thread. they don’t use rainbow silks.