No Swimming In The Kitchen

It’s 4 in the morning
and my head keeps thinking
about the puddles on the floor
from when the rain came in.
I live in a house
with blood stains under fresh paint
and a foundation that creaks
under the weight of the secrets
it holds
and they’re trying to escape.
My skin is untouched
that much is true
but I live in a house
with abuse
and I watched while it brought tears
like tsunamis from my mother’s eyes
and listened to it as the thunder
that rumbles
from my father’s throat,
loud enough to shake my bones
and awake me from a sleep.
It slashed open the concrete
of this house
and I have seen the walls bleed
from open wounds
then it rotted and rusted every corner
of the air until my lungs
could not stand a chance
against the waves that came
crashing down the door
all hearts diving in to swim with spite on the floor.
They tied their grief
around my ankle
and watched me drown.