I have nowhere to go,
afraid of my own home
and the creaks,
the way my mother looks at me,
a half starved love,
and my father with his scorn.

Do any of us sleep
besides him?
Keep our eyes open in the dark
for forming faces
over our heads.
He'll slip
like deadweight
into his reflection,
look at us like fleas and roaches,
to scurry at the sound
of footsteps.