The House with No Love

Seven years old and I witnessed my mom fight over a knife with her boyfriend.

What was I observing? They called it an argument.

Was this how couples argued? Blood dripping from both hands.

We got home and he left.

Left my mom, left his love, left a fetus in my mother’s stomach.

Eight years old, I have a new sibling.

My mom has a ring on her finger, and another baby on the way.

I now call her boyfriend my step-dad, though he is everything but.

Two weeks he leaves to drive, two weeks he comes back and drives us insane.

I lock myself in the restroom, lights off, I scream internally.

Nine years old, we have a new house.

Two stories tall with red brick and hibiscus flowers in the front.

I love yous come and go, but the fighting continues.

A third sibling and all I think is how tight the cuffs are.

This house is too big, too much room for disaster.

Ten years old, and my step-dad gets laid off.

My mom becomes the provider, and the kids are raised wrong.

I come home to a trashed house, a dad with no motivation.

The kids are naked and there’s feces on the walls.

I pick up the mess and wait for a thank you.

Eleven years old, and my mom files for divorce.

She does this without his knowledge.

We struggle, but the love mother has saves us.

We move out of the house with no love.

We start anew in a one story with no flowers.

Nineteen years old, and my mother is happy.

The dark days fade and now there’s just light.

Compromise, sacrifice, and understanding; this is the norm.

The kids have a dad, and I feel safe.

Because I love you, this is the answer to compromise.

Misconstrued was my idea of an I love you.

Yelling and bickering was my idea of a normal conversation.

Sacrifice seemed to be a derogatory concept.

Home never felt like home, till we moved to a new one;

The walls of our small abode are resurfaced and sound.