The pots and pans drowning in soapy foam three weeks old,
And the walls always grey, immune to any hint of sun from the outside--
From blatant threats, hissing words, mangled yelling, obvious taunts;
From fists thrown wide and sure under the constant drunken rage;
From the curtains of hair trying to preserve what little life
Sparked within my eyes--
Chained to the past by a heavy locket,
The oppressive weight of every ancestor watching me,
And green cropping up in all the little things--
From hanging out the window, constantly trailing
The road outside or watching from the bushes;
From the skip in the heart as he saunters by,
Always full of handsome superiority--
But dead snakes with a slight writhe found savage shelter on the door;
A mad brother’s cackling haunted the very night;
From duty to my father I did shrink--
Choking and spluttering; grubbing along the floor;
Sinking into the grey walls behind me;
A sharp knife through the heart as I hear those wretched words--
And when freedom finally beckons me,
Caution is thrown to the winds-
From brewing an urgent love potion;
From persuading him to take just a sip;
From finally taking leave and finally running away.
I come from watching his expression sour,
From having to huddle on the floor
As he walked firmly away,
And I now spiritless, a new life twisting within me.
From cobblestone alleys, frozen rain,
And crickets berating the night;
From wandering aimlessly, a dry crust of bread,
Squalor and filth still following me;
From sleepless hours of darkness, stumbling over brick and rock,
Living amongst the shadows--
To finally die.