"Grow up" or get out

Every time I hear denim jeans that scratch at the knees cascading up the stairs

I feel the hair on my neck stand,

My spine straightens,

I turn the volume down.

I look over and it isn’t him.

I relax.

20 minutes later I hear it again.

The creak of the steps is a warning to be prepared.

I’m not afraid of the warning shots he sends through texts,

“You can pack your bags and leave.”

All this because I won’t play nice with his mistress

Who sits throned in the living room

Trying to play house

While me and my brother are her paper dolls,

Trapped in the attic,

Awaiting the next call to action.

I’m tired of answering the call.

I’m tired of caving.

So this time when he stands in the frame of my door and tells me to go

I straighten my back,

I meet his gaze,

I calm the hairs on the back of my neck,

And all I say is “No.”