The house I grew up in is bent,
It's always been bent,
Leaning against the earth,
Against the wind.
Against empty promises
That now cave in
Under their own weight.
Sad little house,
With its sad little windows,
Like eyes that've seen too many
Bad days and now they're
***** with knowing.
I hardly ever go back inside.
My dad lives there.
He defines himself
By how well he hides.
Hiding in the bedroom, usually.
Leading his secret life
Behind the closed door.
Sad door.
He is alone for the most part,
But he still has the kids.
Though, I don't like
For him to think that he does,
Lest he should grow too comfortable.
Most times I just stand outside
And stare into the family room.
I try to imagine the five of us
Surrounding the television set,
Tuned into some black and white
Classic, smiling honest smiles
And not the thin, fake *******
Smiles we wear now.

But when I watch television now,
It's always something that's in color.
Black and white hurts my eyes.
Too much contrast.

And when I think of home,
I do not think of that sad, bent little
House on the hill where I was born.
No, I think of somewhere else.
Somewhere I haven't been yet.
Somewhere where lies can't just
Hide in the bedroom.