you are no home to me

I dream of living in cardboard boxes
and bushes under the stars
 
any place that isn’t here
 
you say a house is a dream
but mine is just another weapon
on a battlefield I am
so close to losing
 
you, who speak of curtains and
the warm tones of a well hung
painting that compliments
your wallpapered living room;
 
you have never had to cower
in fear of your mother
washing the dishes with
pure venom as her soap
 
you don’t flinch every time a door slams
or hate the sound of feet shaking
the wood boards above you because
you know it means he’s coming
and you don’t have time to hide
 
you think your house is a castle
only because you never
had to live in the tower
chained to the floor by
nothing but
your mother’s cold expectations of you
 
and that look your father gives you
 
I was never a good child, you know
but I was
far too scared to be a bad one
 
my mother told me once
when I was young enough to listen
not to speak to strangers, but
I know now that strangers are far safer
 
they don’t hurt you the way family does
 
or maybe I just don’t let them, now

Originally Published in ​anatomy of melancholia