a house and a home

me and my brother never quite got along,

behind doors, shut, never slammed.

only 10 feet apart but the hallway’s a void.

my dad tells me he doesn’t like himself and adds a but to every apology.

works himself to ashes and they spark in the house.

my mom cries because she thinks she’s a bad mother and she’s alone in these rooms.

she talks because she’s terrified of echos.

i didn’t want any of this,

i just wanted to feel safe and accepted,

but a house isn’t always a home.

a part of me still holds on to the person they want me to be,

but it’s rotting off its seams and i’m coming undone.