When Home Isn’t Safe

Fear is not something you should feel, When you ride the bus home after school. Perhaps I’m just paranoid, Maybe I’m only attention-seeking: But could you really blame me? That tinge of nervousness in your bones, When you step across the doorway. Flinching at every creak of the floor, Cringing at the groan of the door. Blaring music in your headphones, To drown out the infernal noise. Screaming, cries, glass, and doors. You could never get that smell out: Smoke, beer, maybe a hint of rust. The soreness waking up each morning, Feeling through your shirt for new bruises, And wrapping up your arms for the weekend. People tell you the rasp in your voice is cool, You might nod or look away, Not wanting to explain how sometimes you scream back. You feel the edge of panic, The urge to attack, But you know you could never hurt anyone. But look at the cuts, your blackened lungs, Your raspy voice, the panic attacks: You’re already killing someone. You tell yourself it’s not who you are, That you’re going to be different. But every night in that house, You swear it’ll never end. Perhaps I’m just paranoid, Maybe I’m only attention-seeking: But could you blame me? What was I supposed to do?