No one stays in our house.
Maybe on your birthday, when the candles accumulate,
and the years fit inside spit sealed envelopes.
No one is safe in our house.
Exhaust pipes rattling and valves stop pumping.
Maybe on your wedding day, when you need an arm to hold,
but instead you’re left with lip stained flutes and rice in the cracks of your shoes.
Truth is, she could have stayed, she could have
scrubbed the dirt from the crescents of your eyes.
She could have made you eggs, and signed “xoxo”.
But, no one stays in our house,
leaving with tracks of tipped chairs, bent photographs,
and betrayal like knife to the bone.
It could have been the PhD mangled by Crayola swirls or the boots,
that brought rainwater puddles inside, or
the interrupted dreams.
But maybe it’s because God isn’t fair, safe in his own home,
and we’re all left to straighten the pictures and pick up the chairs.
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