Love, in this house,
was like a missing arm.
You knew it should be there.
You felt the empty space.
But it was never truly around.
This house,
It never really slept.
Not like real homes do.
Not with that calm, easy peace.
No.
Our house… it pounded.
A broken beat.
A wild, angry rhythm.
Of shouting. Of yelling.
It wasn't just noise.
It was the air itself.
Heavy. So thick you could choke.
It stuck to the paint, peeling off the walls.
It sank into the old, worn floorboards.
Every breath felt held.
Every step felt like walking on glass.
Trying not to mess up.
Trying not to trip a wire.
Trying not to make one mistake.
A spoon. Left out.
A chore. Forgot.
One wrong word. Said it wrong.
Anything small
anything not perfect
Could just blow up the whole place.
Voices, sharp like knives
tears through the quiet,
shredding the fragile skin of childhood.
No gentle hand.
No patient talk.
No soft, quiet help.
Just the loud, deafening roar
meant to make you feel tiny.
To make you want to just
disappear into the wall.
It wasn't just talk.
No.
It was real.
It was always there.
A cold, hard reminder
of how little you mattered.
How easily you could be tossed out
from those very walls.
Instead, there was just fear.
A tight, hard knot.
It squeezed tighter with every loud voice.
Every door that slammed shut.
It was a house
built on blame—
where every mistake,
no matter how small,
felt like the end of the world.
