My house is often angry, tension like the humidity before a tornado, fist pumps the air and smashes it to fashion playdough, mouths moving projecting cries and pleas, and I’m in my room pleading hands clenched and bowing on my knees. My house is often restless, racing around with something to knit pick, making sure to shine the brights on every imperfection and little knick, so I walk on eggshells that feel like glass, just waiting for this hopeless time to pass. My house is often silent, because violence sufficates the voice, and I always wonder why she stays when she has always had a choice, but kids remain with legalities to parents, unless they run away or to a relative they’re sent… like me eventually I slip fell and got up again, then my sister gave me her hand to lend, to live and get out of the abyss, so I said goodbye and gave my boyfriend a kiss. I left no trail behind and no I know that a home is not a shelter, it’s the crazy that’s within my head that leaves me helter skelter. The things my mind can’t comprehend, the walls I’ve built so tall to keep me safe within. But now these walls are like a jail cell, ready to taunt me and drag me down to hell, but my fight won’t let me and didn’t get through just to die, but I learned to toughen up just to help me survive. My… skin… is… thick, and I will bounce back, making better of everything that measured me at the bottom of the stack. Giving up was something I never understood, my daddy raised me by implanted knowledge under my hood. He insured that I… would survive.
