The plastic is still on the lamps in the living room
And some of the wrapping is still on the television downstairs
They both serve as tiny reminders
That this house is not a home
The closet in the basement still squeaks no matter how gently you open it
And the dishwasher's hinges creak no matter how fast you close it
They both serve as tiny reminders
That no matter how much you may want something to be otherwise
Sometimes it just isn't going to happen
The red smear at the bottom of the bathtub
And the faded lines that litter my upper thighs
Both serve as tiny reminders
Of the nights that I just wasn't strong enough
But that same smear of blood at the bottom of the bathtub
And those same scars on my legs
Both serve as tiny reminders
That I had just as much will to continue on
As the amount of will I had to cause them