Created by Kelsey Mar
If home is like a body
How do we study its anatomy?
It’s winding hallways the veins that pulsate throughout your arms
Their liminal spaces serving as passageways to your heart
My eyes, the windows, they see all.
Even what we wish would stay deep below.
I was young when you taught me that home wasn’t safe.
For as long as I can remember, your words began to weave their way into my locks
Your hands fumbled at the handles before finally finding their way inside.
All those subtle jabs created cracks in the plaster of the hallways:
I can hear every mistake you know. Even from where I’m sitting, I’m watching you.
Even after you left the room
Your presence remained.
Did you know it still haunts me
The time you broke the hinges on the door with so much force
The bruise, the discoloration in my skin you left
I’m still left to scrub the paint off my halls.
When my grandmother saw my misty eyes as I scuttled down the stairs
And when I finally ran to my room to see if anything had been broken, you replied:
What? All I did was pinch her butt a little.
My home, invaded many times
Finally, you broke open my chest
The one where I kept all my childhood trinkets
And tossed them carelessly to the floor.
You stole the paper they gave my mother when I came out crying from the hospital
The one piece of me that was still mine.
Even now, 21 years wise
I’m still repairing those cracks you left with plaster
Although the door’s hinges have since been replaced
The disguise you used to sneak into my home still lingers.
I was only 9 years old.
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