When a house is dirty, we clean it.

We sweep away the dust and scrub away the stains until there is

nothing left

to remind us of the

wreckage

which once found shelter there.

We dispose of the bits and pieces which were once left behind.

We make debris disappear.

And our houses never feel dirty.

 

But my house is different.

My house feels dirty.

 

Between a kitchen embellished with dreams like

broken plates

and a living room which crawls with the

cockroaches of rejection,

Hallways lined with portraits of pointing fingers

and closets straining to hush secretive whispers,

Bathrooms tarnished by stains of self-hatred

and attics caving under the weight of weakness.

My house feels dirty.

 

And that room,

my room,

My room is the worst.

My thoughts have woven themselves into

cobwebs which find solace in the dusty corners of those four,

smothering

walls, and spiders pluck the fine threads

mercilessly,

my pain echoing in their motions.

 

To the world, my house is a courageous statue,

brash, bold,

brave.

No, my house is a

concrete cage,

Fear pulses through its steel veins. 

Sturdy it seems,

But the insides crumble.

 

My house is hollow.

My house is debased. 

My house is no longer my own.  

 

I hate my house.

 

I hate my house because that is what I have been told to do.

I hate my house because that is what I have been taught to do.

 

I was told my house was dirty because I opened my doors.

I was told my house was dirty because

too much paint

covered the walls in an undeserving attempt to be

beautiful.

 

I was told to hate my house

instead of the one who stomped about in his dirty work boots even though I

screamed

for him to

stop.

 

I begged him to

leave my house alone.

I begged him to allow me to keep my house

pure;

to keep my house

whole.

 

But he left my house

bare.

But he left my house

broken.

 

And he kept stomping.

And he kept tearing.

And he kept breaking.

 

Me.

 

And now I feel dirty.

 

I hate my house.