Not the home I grew up in.

We fashion truths out of the 

sewing needles that you used

to rend your family apart. 

You stole the living room lamps

and there we sat

unlit

yet burning. 

They say that the foundation of a house

determines it's longevity.

What tar paper is covering this 

ancient beast? 

Who traverses the spine of this home? 

When the bows break across your ribcage,

I want you to know:

I was at peace here.