Somewhere between twelve and fifteen years ago,
I learned to keep my mouth closed.
Mama laughed at the dinner table, Daddy rolled his eyes.
Always had to tell her, "That's not lady-like."
So I learned to whisper, if I needed salt or pepper.
And I always swore, Daddy's eyes could start a war.

I don't want to go home to a place like this.
I don't want to go home to a place I'm walking on glass.

Sometime long ago, my Mama's fire would barely glow.
I asked her, "Mama, Mama, where did it go?"
She told me, "Darling" and looked in my eyes, said, "Sparks are hot but they quickly die. And when Daddy doesn't feed this flame, the love will die just the same."

That's just table talk that's just the way things go.
We sit in silence as we watch the clock tick on and on and on.