Best Written Work - 2016
the other day you were painting and asked me if your art looked like a home
then you asked me the age old question: what makes a house a home?
that’s when i began to think.
my room never had a fan and my window was never allowed to be opened
i wasn’t allotted a mirror, but could hear my mom scream every time she shattered hers.
that was once a week.
my dad never bothered putting the doorknob onto my little brother’s door
but once he turned sixteen he added one with a lock.
that was the week he was arrested.
i covered for my older sister when she drove three hours to sleep with an older boy
i later held her in my cut up arms as our dogs cuddled us close and warm.
that was the night she cried.
my dad taught me that fairy tale love does not exist in the real world
if only he knew my mom found her prince charming with his own wife and kids.
that was six years ago.
the other day you were painting and asked me if your art looked like a home
then you asked me the age old question: what makes a house a home?
that’s when i opened up.
you painted messy rooms and closets filled with colors.
you painted bright lights and rooms with open doors.
you painted homes.
a house stops being a home when the rooms are kept clean while the lies only get messier.
when the closets of once happy children turn to black as haunting fills their minds.
as the lights are turned off and doors are shut like the mouths of our family at the dinner table.
my house stopped being a home when my mouth got sick of smiling.