thorns in the living room

In the house full of voices, mine is the one you hate to listen to.

You turn me down—my expectations, my voice, my feelings—

until they are barely even a breath.

Yet still, you flinch.

You flinch because I dared to exist.

You flinch because I am no longer a child—

and I know that you are wrong.

You speak to me only in sharp edges,

each taunt thrown into my heart

without thinking, without caring

which part of me it will shatter next.

You save your softness for the world,

leaving me outside the circle—always.

You speak to me only to judge,

only to cut me and weigh me down with your judgment.

I don’t feel good at home—

not when the air gets heavy

and happiness fades the moment you enter the room.

I shouldn’t feel more at home

in strange places—

but I do.

It’s safer to be anywhere else,

because here, under the same roof,

I am nothing more

than a target you never miss.