A House Divided

December 22, 2017

I was five the first time I heard my parents fight,

Their tongues forking lightning in flippant tones.

Even now I can hear the resounding booms that shook our home,

And people wonder why I’m terrified of thunderstorms.

I was nine the first time the word divorce snuck its way past my lips.

I remember hating its heavy weight on my tongue;

It tasted like floral perfume;

The kind you wear to funerals.

I’m seventeen now,

A walking hypocrisy if you’ve ever met one.

When people ask me why my car is so messy,

I tell them that I live there more than either house,

That the radio sounds more welcoming than the doorbell

that I keep forgetting that I don’t have to ring anymore.

I’ve driven so far and so fast that sometimes I forget that I’ve forgotten how to fly,

And how much I envy birds.

Not because they can go everywhere,

But because they can be anywhere but here.

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