Mar 2014
My family built
our house out of dad’s downstairs recording studio.
The couch where mama rubs my head.
The wooden dining room table,
where we play Cards Against Humanity.
This is love to me.
I think of these things when there are differences in our house.
When we fill each wall and crevice
with angry door slamming,
grabbed shirts,
words that split ears
like singed rocks.
Sophomore year I brought
home my first boyfriend.
I told mama we were in love.
We sat at the table,
played board games with my family.
He was quick to help my brother
with the rules,
quick to help mama clean up the dishes.
He memorized the way our paint chipped,
the way we built our home.
I watched as he brushed his hands
over our dining room table.
Thought he fixed the *****
crevices in our walls.
7 months later we are driving home from a date.
I let him squeeze my thigh.
Smiled even though it hurt.
I agreed to let him pull over.
Push me against the car window.
I smiled as he fish hooked my hands
to the roof of the car.
I didn’t tell him
that my neck was craning.
That I wanted to go home.
I didn’t resist as he pushed.
Kept smiling as his kisses got rougher.
All this time I had been pretending
that what he was doing was okay,
that his love was my family’s piano,
the black bricked fireplace,
not the door slamming in my bedroom
not the dining room table,
not the way he sat at it
and never wanted to leave.
I never thought it would be fair to want him to leave.
Driving home that night I was lucky.
I know I wasn’t *****
but when he squeezed my thigh I didn’t say no.
Didn’t scream like I wanted to,
didn’t kick like I should have.
Didn’t know how to leave someone
who was already built into my home.
I should have known.
No matter how much he fit into
the walls of our home,
he would never play
the piano like my dad,
never rub my head like my mom.
He would never be family.
Never know how to watch paint chip,
and let it become part of a home.
He would only surround me with walls
and watch as they sunk into the floor like love.
Where do you go when you are no longer safe inside your own walls?
©DelaneyMiller
our house out of dad’s downstairs recording studio.
The couch where mama rubs my head.
The wooden dining room table,
where we play Cards Against Humanity.
This is love to me.
I think of these things when there are differences in our house.
When we fill each wall and crevice
with angry door slamming,
grabbed shirts,
words that split ears
like singed rocks.
Sophomore year I brought
home my first boyfriend.
I told mama we were in love.
We sat at the table,
played board games with my family.
He was quick to help my brother
with the rules,
quick to help mama clean up the dishes.
He memorized the way our paint chipped,
the way we built our home.
I watched as he brushed his hands
over our dining room table.
Thought he fixed the *****
crevices in our walls.
7 months later we are driving home from a date.
I let him squeeze my thigh.
Smiled even though it hurt.
I agreed to let him pull over.
Push me against the car window.
I smiled as he fish hooked my hands
to the roof of the car.
I didn’t tell him
that my neck was craning.
That I wanted to go home.
I didn’t resist as he pushed.
Kept smiling as his kisses got rougher.
All this time I had been pretending
that what he was doing was okay,
that his love was my family’s piano,
the black bricked fireplace,
not the door slamming in my bedroom
not the dining room table,
not the way he sat at it
and never wanted to leave.
I never thought it would be fair to want him to leave.
Driving home that night I was lucky.
I know I wasn’t *****
but when he squeezed my thigh I didn’t say no.
Didn’t scream like I wanted to,
didn’t kick like I should have.
Didn’t know how to leave someone
who was already built into my home.
I should have known.
No matter how much he fit into
the walls of our home,
he would never play
the piano like my dad,
never rub my head like my mom.
He would never be family.
Never know how to watch paint chip,
and let it become part of a home.
He would only surround me with walls
and watch as they sunk into the floor like love.
Where do you go when you are no longer safe inside your own walls?
©DelaneyMiller
