The walls of your childhood home used to hold their breath when you got upset. I would pretend I didn't notice the holes in the closet door and you would pretend they didn't mirror the holes in your chest. You never told me about your father, but when you were drunk you'd mention your old man and I could see all those miles of running in your eyes. I saw a picture in your mom's living room of a man with the same jawline as you. Always clenched, always tense, always ready to leave at a moments notice. You said I made you softer. I didn't know if that was a compliment with the amount of venom you spat it out with. You felt you were above vulnerability but I remember walking to your house in the rain to shoo away your insecurites. The door was unlocked but you never really let me inside. You didn't speak to me for three days after it burned down. When you finally did show up at my doorstep you said you were ready to come home. I was ready to keep you warm in the winter but I had forgotten about your fists in the drywall and the way you slammed doors until the front window shattered.