The house holds its breath when I step inside,
Its walls, a silent witness to where I’ve cried.
The floors creak beneath a heavy weight,
Not just my steps—but pain’s quiet freight.
The scars on my skin have long since healed,
But inside, there are wounds I’ve yet to seal.
The ghost of his hand still burns on my face,
The kicks and the shoves that time can't erase.
Every room is a canvas of violent hues,
A story painted in blacks and blues.
The air hangs thick, a suffocating dread,
As memories linger like whispers unsaid.
His’s grip—too tight to ignore,
His’s rage—left cracks in the door.
Now, no marks remain, no outward trace,
But the ache lingers in this haunted space.
My chest tightens as if bound by chains,
Phantom blows reignite buried pains.
The house is a prison, its walls a snare,
Each breath a battle with despair.
But this time, there’s no bruise to see,
No proof of the storm that rages in me.
I tell myself this is the last,
That I’ll leave behind the echoes of the past.
One day, I’ll walk free from this cursed place,
Leave behind its ghosts, reclaim my grace.
Until then, I carry these scars unseen,
A warrior fighting to break free, to dream.